The real news these days is about science, and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported that life expectancy is dropping in the U.S., and the American male's average life expectancy is 76.1 years, a figure I reached several months ago.
My expiration date has passed. This comes as a shock, to think that I'm expected to die now, in a state of ignorance, still trying to figure out the basics (What am I here for? Why do rainy days make me happy? Where are my glasses?).
The CDC says life expectancy is declining due to substance abuse and an increase in suicide rates, neither of which apply to me, unless the substances include coffee or unless they now consider lack of daily strenuous exercise to be suicidal. So I am hopeful that I will exceed the average. My dad made it to 88, my mom to 97, so I am counting on reaching 94.
On the heels of the CDC report came the news from China -- the birth of the first genetically edited babies -- the door opening to a whole new phase of history, well-designed human beings. Babies coming down the chute, each with an IQ of 143, no allergies or addictive tendencies, no syndromes or complexes, good teeth and strong bones, and eyes and hair in your choice of the many colors available.
We 76.1-year-olds shudder at the thought but we know that our descendants will accept this as commonplace, just as we accept social media as a useful replacement of actual conversation. Designer babies: why not?
I grew up with kids who were deeply flawed in so many ways. There was no therapy back then, just people yelling at you to shape up. I was a very quiet boy, kept to myself, didn't say much -- which back then people thought meant I was gifted, so I went along under that illusion -- now they'd say â€śhigh-functioning end of the autism spectrumâ€ť but autism hadn't been invented yet --- so I was gifted instead. Ignorance spared us from knowing the severity of our problems.
Cruelty was rampant in the schoolyard of my day. We played Pom-pom-pullaway and for most of us it was enough to simply tag a runner, not tackle, kick, or bite him, but for others it was open warfare. In the boys' lavatory, you had to beware of boys who, as you stood at the trough, would jerk your trousers up so that you'd wet yourself. I've lost track of the bullies in my class -- I assume they're in federal penal institutions -- and would I feel deprived if genetic editing had been around back then so that everyone would be just as nice as I? I don't think so.
I sat at supper last night next to a friend with a basketball under her blouse, a little girl fetus due to make her big entrance in mid-January, and so the future is on my mind and what sort of life this heroine will enjoy. She'll grow up in a house in the woods and I hope the natural world brings her pleasure and at the same time she comes to love our language and to devour it in books. I hope she'll have a dog.
When I am 92, I'd love to see her, tall and rangy, take a pass, go high in the air, and hit a swisher from the free-throw line. Or sit at a piano and play a Chopin Ă©tude. Or both. And one day a door will open -- maybe math, physics, history, poetry, art -- and she'll go marching through it.
Meanwhile, I must figure out what to do with these bonus years I have coming to me. At 76.1, one's world gets smaller, the ambition to triumph and conquer has pretty much receded. My glasses sit beside the computer, next to the coffee cup, and there is bread in the kitchen waiting to be toasted and spread with peanut butter.
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