Over the past few years I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon. Whenever the topic of death comes up in conversation, I end up grinning like a fool at the thought of my own demise. I had to sit myself down just recently and tease out exactly what was going on.
I’ve concluded that I’m not any more senile than I’ve always been. And I’m not exactly anticipating death or accumulating habits or hobbies that would accelerate its arrival. This strange response to the mention of death seems to be a function of 1) my affinity for risk, 2) my definition of success, 3) the wealth of amazing memories I’ve accumulated, and 4) my identity as a father.