Given the nature of this column, I long ago passed the threshold for at least the appearance of narcissism.  In a world of war, disease, ecological disasters, financial crisis and Mel Gibson, surely there’s something else to write about besides my stupid life.

I prefer to think of myself as a niche writer, though, with a very specific niche.  I’m not saying that it’s a great career track.

But narcissism is a judgment call, and feel free to judge.  I would argue that I’m under no illusions that the world revolves around me (does the world actually revolve?  Hmm.  Yes, I believe it does), and that in fact my existence is so trivial that it’s amazing to me I manage to avoid floating off into space (another question for my science-savvy friends), but then we have July.  July casts aspersions, or at least doubts, on all of this.

My parents, you see, had the foresight to arrange that I would be born in July, the best month ever, and so once a year, while the rest of you are mowing, I become reflective.  One more year.  What does it mean?  What has been accomplished?  Is there going to be a line at the DMV?

For the last few years, I’ve been trying to take advantage of this happy convergence of July and my birthday to work out the details of a unified theory of aging.  Are there constants that firmly establish a 52-year-old’s place in the universe?  Is it all relative to health and wealth, or perhaps specific generations?  Am I physically and socially younger than my grandparents were at this age, or is that an illusion, a desperate attempt to justify bad judgment when it comes to clothes? 

I’m guessing it used to be easier.  It wasn’t that long ago that men who reached my advanced age knew their place.  They wore suits and ties, they rarely spoke, they read newspapers in the morning, and then they died.  It was a simple life.

Now we have choices.  And triathlons.  And hair implants.  Not to mention progressive lenses, relaxed-fit pants and all sorts of ways to make our teeth whiter, all in an attempt to mess with nature and the natural order.
(On a side note: As a recalcitrant night owl, I can verify that if you want to definitively find out how old you really appear, just look in the bathroom mirror at 3 a.m.  It’s better than carbon dating.)

None of this appeals to me, so I mostly do what I’ve always done, and I’ve left very specific instructions to my family that on the day I start griping about the world being better in the old days, or that the kids wear dumb clothes and dumb hats and listen to dumb music, they have my permission to discuss euthanasia.

And still I search for meaning, and I believe that lately, finally, I’m onto something.

I’m serious about my trivial existence.  I am, in fact, grateful every day for my ordinary life and staggered by the suffering in this world that I’ve never had to endure, and by the gifts and grace I’ve been lucky enough to experience.

But ordinary doesn’t mean insignificant.  I’ve made a million bad decisions, and seen events spiral out of my control.  I’ve watched friends and family die suddenly, and slowly.  I’ve fought wars on lonely battlefields, in the middle of the night and in small rooms.

I’ve struggled with death and disease, financial insecurity and crisis, legal entanglements, marriage problems, parent problems, house problems, depression, grief, loneliness, fear, desperation, unemployment, loss, injury, obesity, and booze.

And I’m still here.

This is the secret to my July, to all my Julys, and why I get up every morning and ignore the sounds my knees make.  The alternative to even a messy life is too quiet for me, and the fact that this planet I’m so fond of has made one more revolution around the sun with me on it provides, as it turns out, joy.

I’m a realist.  I’m rarely surprised by bad news, or that bad choices come back to haunt me.  I see the headlines as well as anyone else (glasses help).  I know this can be a cruel life, sometimes pointless and harsh.  I know that sooner or later I will be dust, forgotten, less than a blip on the human scale, unknown to future generations and for good reason.

But a few years ago I met a young man who was suffering, battling demons, wrestling with life.  We talked a little; I was of no help, and as I watched him walk away into the night I whispered, “Stay alive,” understanding that I was really talking to myself, and why.