Dates. Not the nuts or fruits or whatever they are, but the numbers that we tend to memorize and memorialize.
Anniversaries. Birthdates. Deathdates. You know what I am talking about.
We are obsessed with them, especially birthdates. We are expected to remember not only our own birthdates but also those of our spouses, kids, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews. And that’s just family. Add in your neighbors, college classmates and the guy with the locker next to you in sixth grade, and that’s a lot of birthdates to remember. Most of us rely on some sort of digital calendar today for this stuff. My dad had them written in ink in a coil-bound calendar that he kept on the kitchen table. Regardless, it’s a lot to keep track of.
Even so, we can miss a birthday from time to time and not get much grief. That is not true for your wedding anniversary. The only saving grace is if your spouse happens to forget, too, which did actually happen to Jolene and me one year. Wedding anniversaries are also different in that you are not expected to know everyone else’s. You might be like my mother was, the thoughtful one who sent a card to a couple on their one-year or two-year anniversary, but that’s rare. Anniversaries are more personal.
Deathdates are another story entirely. I happen to remember when Elvis Presley died, because it was on my birthday, but that’s about it. I try to focus on the positive memories of people close to me who died, and their deaths aren’t memories I want to store in my mental calendar. My mother obsessed on the deathdates of her parents, and that fixation is likely the reason I try to block deathdates out of my mind. Even so, I am not judging others who find healing in memorializing these dates, as we each deal with death in our own ways.
Meanwhile, I can’t seem to remember how old I am. I have to do the math each time I am asked just to be sure, and then I am still not positive I am correct. But what I am positive about is my junior high gym locker combination. 34-15-3. Those numbers are locked in my brain.
Lemar Koethe, the local fitness guru who founded 7 Flags Fitness Center in Clive in the 1990s, once told me, “Your age is only a number. How you take care of yourself determines your real age.” He was right.
So I am not going to obsess on dates, at least not the numerical ones. The nutty, fruity ones? Those are fine, and eating them might even help me live longer. But who’s counting?
Have a thoughtful Thursday, and thanks for reading.
Shane Goodman
President and Publisher
Big Green Umbrella Media
shane@dmcityview.com | 
