On the Unblooded Edge

I'm going to be 40 this year, which traditionally in this country means the beginning of the living-mourning of my imminent death. In reaction to that, it is also supposed sound the starting gun on the period of my life where I face this slow diminishment unto nothingness with wild flailing tantrums of meaningless resistance, usually in the shape of age-inappropriate short-term sexual companionship, some hair dye, pretending to like bands I've never heard of (and who are specifically not speaking to me), wearing what I imagine to be current fashion* and probably a sports car.

I haven't actually breached the threshold yet, so there's some time yet before I go the Full Tom Cruise, but I think I'm doing a good job prepping myself for the onslaught of conflicted emotions by looking on the bright side. One example: I'm going to be too old to be drafted!

It doesn't seem like much of a threat anyway in this day and age. I mean, we fought the two simultaneous wars in Iraq and Afghanistan right alongside the wars on drugs and Christmas, all without having to dragoon anyone into service. Well, except all of the National Guard. But they already had the clothes and the haircuts, so they were practically asking for it.

So I hadn't felt all that threatened. Honestly I think I passed out of eligibility for the draft when I turned 26 or maybe 35 or something, I don't know. That should tell you exactly how much I was sweating it I guess. But although the status quo is all-volunteer, a preponderance of catastrophes could always coalesce into something horribly grand and very much in need of cannon fodder. Our media being what it is, this tipsy-topsy brink is perceived to be teetered over on a semi-regular basis. I hadn't really been all that frightened over many of them, mostly because the real issues over the last several years have been Arab-on-Arab, so for all the screaming and bold-font-chyron-ing, the interest peters out as soon as a Kardashian forgets to wear a bra or something.

This Ukraine thing feels a little different, though. Some thoughtful things have been written about it, sure, but our press is the greenest of green enterprises, meaning holy fuck, can they recycle. Issues with Russia immediately trigger a reflex regurgitation of Cold War U.S.-vs.-Soviet bombast and panic, usually with very helpfully ominous drummy drummy music. As long as we and our Russian friends maintain our massive nuclear arsenals I guess the portrayal of potential conflict warrants a certain level of extra sphincter-clenching, or at least it will until all of us who were old enough to drive when the Berlin Wall came down are out of decision-making posts in media organizations or the corporations who own them.

I almost joined the Navy Reserve twice. Once in late 2000/early 2001 when I was a new house husband looking for a little extra income, the prospect of a pension and the opportunity to blow the occasional thing up. This is where your mind goes home all day with an infant. But I couldn't make the time commitment to train. Then September rolled around that year and, yeah, I think I leaned the right way. Saved again by laziness.

The second time was about three months ago. The absolute cutoff date for starting in the Navy Reserve is 39. I had the same interests, in the pension and the income and the explosions caused by me,** but this time opted not to pursue it when I saw how much the idea of it scared my teenage son.

This Ukraine thing isn't anything like 9/11 of course, but it's just a reminder that geopolitics is full of slippery slopes. Considering "geo-" means "earth" it's also full of non-slippery slopes, flat bits, very dry gradual rises, meadows full of opium poppies and ice caves where the polar bears live, but none of those are quite the universal metaphor for imminent danger I was looking for.

The point is that cowards tend to live a long time. Even past 40, when they can't make you go anymore. It's the reward you get for finally, mercifully, outliving what little usefulness you may ever have had.


--

*I see them in the hipster enclaves and as far as I can tell, all of them are dressed like Frodo Baggins.

**I no longer have the infant excuse. I'm worried I may actually be a psychopath.