I’m seriously putting this guy in a book. If you haven’t met him, he makes a regular appearance on this blog, so check out the basic story.
The other day Daryl stopped in between jobs to cool down and get a glass of ice water. His birthday was over the weekend (Happy Belated Birthday to Daryl!!) and he was looking to have a “little money in my pocket when I wake up.” I asked him how old he was going to be, and he said he didn’t know, but last time he checked he was 36.
Now, lemme be clear, while not bent with age or anything, Daryl is not 36.
I asked if he didn’t know what year he was born, and he said of course he knew – and if I promised not to do the math out loud, he would tell me. (I promised. He was born in 1960.) See, Daryl figures there is no sense in knowing how old you are. Then you might feel obligated to act that age. Plus, the annual increase of years is just a reminder that we keep marching closer to dying. And once you die, that’s it! There’s NO COMIN’ BACK! (Apparently Daryl is decidedly anti-reincarnation.) So he figures why count the years? You live as long as you’re going to live; doesn’t matter if you do the math or not. He recommended I stop counting at 35.
This did get Daryl waxing eloquent on Heaven. When he gets there, he’s going to eat honey and ‘tato chips. And it’ll be fun because everyone in Heaven has wings – that’s the difference between good people and bad; if you’re bad they clip your wings so you sink. But when I get there, too, Daryl and I, we’re going to fly all around, eat vegetables, pet a tiger (’cause they’re nice in Heaven), and ride an elephant.
I think I like Daryl’s version of Heaven.
