Forever Young

“Sometimes you just have to jump in a mud puddle because it's there. Never get so old that you forget about having fun.”

― Tom Giaquinto, Be A Good Human

Hey there.

I know I went full psychobabble last time. Today… not so much. (Okay, maybe a little. You know me.)
We’re talking about something simple, yet complicated: Getting older.

I wrote a piece once titled “Getting Older”, inspired by Billie Eilish’s song from her Happier Than Ever album. It leaned more melancholy. This one? It’s different. It’s me embracing getting older—not as something depressing, but as proof of survival and perspective. With the world unraveling in every direction, it feels more important than ever to enjoy every minute.

And what better soundtrack than Alphaville’s Forever Young (or the Youth Group cover if you’re nostalgic for The O.C.)?

“Let’s dance in style, let’s dance for a while.
Heaven can wait, we’re only watching the skies.
Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.
Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?”

This lyric pulled my brain straight to the infamous phone call scene from Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. President Merkin Muffley is calmly trying to explain to the Soviet Premier that a nuclear catastrophe is imminent… and absurdly, it sounds almost like a casual check-in.

Here’s the full quote. (Yes, all of it. Worth it.)

“Well, it's good that you're fine and... and I'm fine... I agree with you, it's great to be fine... a-ha-ha-ha-ha...

Now then, Dmitri, you know how we've always talked about the possibility of something going wrong with the Bomb...

The Bomb, Dmitri... The hydrogen bomb!...

Well now, what happened is... ahm... one of our base commanders, he had a sort of... well, he went a little funny in the head... you know... just a little... funny. And, ah... he went and did a silly thing...

Well, I'll tell you what he did. He ordered his planes... to attack your country...

Ah... Well, let me finish, Dmitri... Let me finish, Dmitri...

Well listen, how do you think I feel about it?...

Can you imagine how I feel about it, Dmitri?... Why do you think I'm calling you? Just to say hello?...

Of course I like to speak to you!... Of course I like to say hello!... Not now, but anytime, Dmitri. I'm just calling up to tell you something terrible has happened...

It's a friendly call. Of course it's a friendly call... Listen, if it wasn't friendly... you probably wouldn't have even got it...”

The calm absurdity in that moment reflects the disorientation I feel watching America right now. We're in our own version of an international crisis phone call—but half the country is either asleep or too deep into social media spirals to care.

We’re living through a corrupt administration doing everything in its power to stay in power. Literal detainments and kidnappings. Lawmakers being told they can't leave the capitol. Armed federal troops in Democratic cities based on lies.
Stolen classified documents with unknown reach. The list goes on.

And still, so many Americans don’t want to be informed. “The news is depressing,” they say. But they can tell you everything about Love Island. It's frustrating—especially when you do pay attention. Especially when history and civic understanding actually mean something to you.

But I’m learning to disconnect sometimes—not to ignore it, but to protect my peace. To live. Since July, I’ve made a point of venturing out, even when the world feels heavy. Because time? It’s not infinite.

“Let us die young or let us live forever.
We don’t have the power, but we never say never.
Sittin’ in the sandpit, life is a short trip…”

If you read my birthday post, you know I was dragging my feet about turning 37. My face still looks young—but my back? Not so much. One wrong pillow angle and I need traction.
Still, last weekend, after the Padres vs. Red Sox game, my friend and I had a wild idea while sipping slushies at Fat Tuesday: let’s go to PB. (Pacific Beach, for the non-San Diegans.)

If you know, you know—PB is a 20-something hotspot. Loud bars, barely-there outfits, and influencer vibes galore. Cue: wardrobe anxiety. I hadn’t been to PB in ages. The girl at the store fitting room looked like she might party there, but wasn’t giving me much input. Mini existential crisis ensued.

Eventually, I said forget it—I threw on my Levi’s shorts, a tube top, flip-flops, and my little Kate Spade crossbody. Comfortable, cute, effortless. My friend? She went full denim-on-denim, complete with a jacket.

Now, we have this ongoing inside joke about denim jackets from a night out in North Park. Every guy we ran into that night awkwardly complimented me on my Abercrombie jacket—like every single one. They’d touch my arm and say, “That’s a nice jacket,” like it was some weird pickup line no one agreed on but everyone was using.

So naturally, halfway through the night, I touched her arm and said, completely straight-faced: “That is… a very nice jacket.”

She looked at me like, “Don’t you start.” I nearly lost it.

We hit up a speakeasy first. 90s/00s jams. Strong drinks. Great energy. A new friend (met her at the birthday music fest) joined us. I could’ve stayed there all night.

But no—we were chasing the full PB experience. Our Bay Area girl needed it.

Narrator: They stayed out until 1:30am and were dead to the world the next day.

We bounced down Grand Ave. At one point, my friend spots some barely-dressed girls crowding around firefighters outside their station.

Her: “What are they doing?”
Me: “Looking for a sponsor with a good retirement plan.” 💁🏽‍♀️

Our other friend left early but gave us an “assignment”: talk to at least one guy. There were zero cute guys in line. I used deductive reasoning: If P, then Q. P = no hot guys in line. Q = none in the bar.

We went in anyway. Crowded rooftop. Shoulder to shoulder. Not for us. My friend had dreams of a firefighter photo-op—she went on the Comic Con ferris wheel for me, so I owed her. We approached. They were… fine. Nothing to write home about. And honestly? I’ve had enough “men in uniform” stories. They’re all hoes. And being tall doesn’t mean he’s packing a 747.

My friend: “I hate that you know that from experience.”
Me: “That makes two of us.”

After too many superficial niceties, we dipped. Last bar of the night. Thought it might be full of late 20s/early 30s. Saw someone celebrating their 21st birthday.

My friend (who’s younger than me): “God, I’m old now.”
Me: “You’re younger than me.”

We sat downstairs, had a drink, and watched the fire station garage doors close.

She said, “I guess they’re going to bed now.”
I said, “Nah, they got enough IG accounts for the night.”

It wasn’t the wild night we imagined. But it was fun. Just… different. That’s the key, right? Fun doesn’t disappear—it evolves. We always say we’ll be home by midnight. And we never are. She goes to sleep. I’m up watching crime shows and mobile ordering tacos. The next day? “Tap the IV!”

“It's so hard to get old without a cause
I don't want to perish like a fading horse
Youth's like diamonds in the sun
And diamonds are forever…”

As I get older, I think more about purpose. I probably won’t have kids. Relationships are complicated. So… why am I here?

According to my birth chart, “people need me.” Okay. For what?

My parents say I’m meant to teach. My beautician says she always learns something when I sit in her chair. That means more to me than I can explain. Maybe my purpose is to teach. Or to tell stories. Or to connect. My dad always said he pictured me in a classroom—but with how the system is now, teaching feels like surviving a battlefield. (Looking at you, school board chaos of the 2020s.)

Still, I grapple with a fear: What if I die and no one notices?
It’s irrational, I know. I’ve cultivated a chosen family—friends who see me, who love me, who hold space for me even when I go into hermit mode. I’m lucky.

They say our best friendships are made in youth. And that’s true. I still smile at photos of me and my childhood best friend who passed away too young. I know when I laugh about the time she flipped me off and I couldn’t do it back (my mom never taught me), she’s laughing too—wherever she is.

I think about my neighbor friends and our fake newspaper we sold to get ice cream money. I think about high school football games. Trolley rides to the beach. Even the nights in my 20s with people I shouldn’t have been around—because I was just trying to feel something.

Youth feels eternal—until it doesn’t. But even when gray hairs pop up, that spark stays if you let it. Life. Death. Taxes. All guaranteed.

But live to 200? No thanks.

“Forever young, I want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever?
Forever, and ever…”

Enjoyed this little ride? Don’t be a stranger—there’s plenty more where that came from. Click your way over to the Storytime section in the navigation bar for more deep thoughts, misadventures, and existential spirals (the fun kind).

Feeling the vibes? Want to hear the songs that inspired these stories? Slide over to Soundtrack to My Life, also hanging out in the nav bar.
(Yes, you found it! Look at you—navigating like a pro. Gold star. ⭐)