“Life and death are relativities in the cosmic dream,” I overheard in the gym. I was doing crunches on a mat and a tall guy wearing thick glasses next to me had managed to secure the ear of a girl in pink lululemons with a pink headband. I thought about what he had said. It sounded like something Eastern, whatever that means. The man’s navy shorts hung mid-thigh, exposing his bony knees and flaccid calf muscles. Must have been an office worker of some kind, or a professor, but I could not have cared less. I continued with my crunches. My midsection had turned to goo during the pandemic and I had yet to solidify it despite extreme exertions and the recent suspension of any and all sweets. But even with these measures, I suspected it might have been a losing battle. I had almost concluded the third quarter of my life and wanted to enter the fourth as fit and mobile and clearheaded as possible. Perhaps this was an impossible dream. I had already fallen behind and catching up got harder and harder each year, each month. How my abdominals burned! I paused to let the cramping subside. I felt angry as I continued. Grr. I glanced at the professor who was leaning over the girl in pink like a daylight vampire. She was in her late twenties, I would guess, finely built, supple. He must have been close to fifty, pewter edging his sideburns, showing a slight paunch despite his ectomorphic physique. I couldn’t hear what he was saying as he had lowered his voice several decibels since that initial metaphysical salvo. The girl laughed with an open mouth, and it seemed genuine. Some people have a strange sense of humour, or they’re nervous. I don’t hate my life. It has been okay. I can remember more lowlights than high ones, but that’s probably true of most people. Not all, of course. Some get a free ride, as smooth and comfortable as, say, a 1979 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. Now that was ride, man. That’s okay. Maybe in my next incarnation I can come back in better form, with better karma, and get to ride the Cadillac of life. And I don’t care what anybody says. A Cadillac is still a Cadillac. 

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