Is this killing me?

  I hustled to the delayed train just after 7 pm on a Tuesday night lugging my laptop filled backpack in sharp looking dress shoes now causing sharp pain. I played Frogger across busy city blocks with more agile 20-somethings, and thought “is this killing me, or keeping me young?” I might have even said it out loud.

Aboard I scored a table seat that allowed my legs to stretch some and then noticed a shorter, more wrinkled, more white-haired gent sitting across the aisle from me sporting much better pants. He reached into his grocery store bag with no groceries and threw the Boston Globe and Wall Street Journal on the table in front of him before the train even started moving. I stared, trying to guess which one and which section would get read first.

 And then he pulled out his iPhone, like the newest one, I think. Not sure cause I don’t have it. Did I mention his yellow tie with the all-the-way up knot on the crisp white shirt? Pretty sure I mentioned the awesome burgundy cords already.

He didn’t look like he was asking himself if “this” was aging him or keeping him young. He looked chill.

I concluded that I’m pretty sure I’m going to bed before this guy tonight.

I know the answer but ask myself anyway. We all do that.

“This” is doing both. This effort to choose a new challenge - after countless others we didn’t choose. It’s skiing Saturday and still aching Tuesday. It’s running in the dark before most coffee makers do. It’s walking in the conference room one more time, head higher, giving even less fucks, and walking out saying fuck yeah.

We live a little and die a little every day. That’s not morbid or depressing - if you take a breath and don’t let the jackass on the electric scooter ruin more than a second of your day. It’s a choice. Its simplicity is what’s so maddening sometimes.

Clint Eastwood nailed it. He famously told Toby Keith “I never let the old man in” while making a movie at age 88.

That old man on the train the other night was much younger than me at the beginning of our ride. He read the Globe sports section first. Of course.