I am 26 years old today. I am celebrating by attending "Hamlet" at the Guthrie tonight (my wife and I will be rushing tickets) and hopefully "Jesus Christ Superstar" at Hamline on Saturday. Since this blog exists to share thoughts of a literary or philosophical subject, on Monday you should expect some commentary on the plays I get to view this weekend.
However, now that I am 26, it seems I have another reason to celebrate: I am no longer eligible for the Selective Service!
If I were ever drafted, I would never go to war anyway. Plan A would be to attain Conscientious Objector status. Plan B would be to fail the physical. Plan C would be to leave the country. Plan D would be to shoot my foot off.
Now, I don't have to do anything. I am 26. I won't be drafted.
My wife did not do a lot to make me feel good about being 26. She called it a "sad age," informed me that it means I'm over halfway through my 20s, and said, "After that, what's left? 30s, 40s, 50s..." At which point I said, "Yes, I'm getting closer to death." I then spent a few moments considering the very real fact that one day I will die. I think about death more often than most people, I think, but I'm also struck when I have these minor epiphanies about the very real hard truth about dying.
But now I have reason to be happy. I am no longer eligible for the draft.