"From everything we know about them, they’re savvy, skeptical and self-reliant. They’re not into preening or pampering, and they just might not give much of a hoot what others think of them. Or whether others think of them at all," Taylor wrote.
For me, I don’t identify with all the stats from this article, but I’m still proud to be a part of Gen X.
Two weeks ago, we had to say goodbye to a friend. He was only 33 years old, a loving husband and father, with a brilliant mind and an appetite for all great things—food, travel, adventure. He was taken too soon.
His tragic departure made me wonder if I love those around me enough. Would I have regrets if someone was taken from me prematurely? It is all too easy to take those around you for granted, particularly when you interact with them regularly. This is something I struggle with daily, and I can only hope to improve upon mindful living. The acknowledgment of my shortcomings is there at least, which is a decent starting point.
Late last week, I discovered a few lumps on Shaun the Dog’s™ ribcage. They felt like fatty tissue deposits, and he’s had a couple of other spots popping up on his body over the past year (none of which have gotten bigger or malformed in that time), so we decided it was time to take our 9-1/2-year-old puppy in for a check-up. It turns out, the spots that I was less worried about were more concerning to the vet. A simple visit turned into a $720 affair laden with worry. We should get his lab results back tomorrow.
Today he didn’t want to eat—the first act of this sort really ever in his life. He hasn’t been sleeping in our bed as much. And he acted just plain peculiar first thing this morning. A wave of fear and sadness swept over me; I started weeping as I pet his neck and back. We decided today would be all about him.
Simply put, we got played. But for the better. In my mind, it was his way of forcing us to take time to slow down, to notice, to practice patience, to breathe, to live.
Shaun is no fool; though, I still don’t think he’s the sharpest knife in the drawer. We were gone most of yesterday, and we suspect witnessing his Oscar-winning performance was our punishment. You see, as soon as we walked down to the car with treats in hand, his old man demeanor vanished, and his playful puppy-ness reemerged. He stuck his head out of the car window the whole time, wiggled his butt at passersby when we stopped at various places to get out for a stretch, and returned to feasting on his kibble with frenzy once we were home.
I have no idea how much longer we have with him, but today was a reminder that, despite my hope for the contrary, he is not immortal. He will expire. My love for him, for my husband, for my family and friends, however, will not—but not without effort.