Aging Out of The 27 Club
Since my last birthday, I’ve had several chances to join The 27 Club. Death lurked around every corner. Car rides, greasy pizza slices, drugs of unknown origin, extended blood-curdling sits… all invitations to enter the ranks of those prominently remembered for dying young. Now that I’m 28, the membership offer has officially been rescinded. Any passing from this point forward will stifle the profundity had I died earlier. And to think that my mediocre oeuvre could’ve been labeled as ingenious. Shit.
I’ve never lived a hard and fast lifestyle, so my surviving another day doesn’t come as much of a surprise. In fact, the only time it felt like I was courting death was during my last semester of college, nearly seven years ago. I justified the partying I did then with my lack of partying prior, so I made up for the lost time in a compact, liberating timeframe. If there’s ever an opportunity for a liquor, pot, and pill cocktail with a pack of cigarettes to boot, it’s in the throes of your college education. But now that I’m a sober, vegetarian yogi, it’s a long shot to even join The 28 Club.
I don’t want to downplay death. Close family members have attempted suicide while others continue to do it slowly with every sip they take. So, to counteract my crass attitude surrounding the tragic and coincidental deaths of young people, I want to say that I’m ecstatic to be alive and sad about the ones we’ve lost.
We defy the odds by existing. I very well could’ve been a stain in a sock, as many of my comrades in cum met their fate, or pancaked by any number of vehicles I’ve rashly walked out in front of. To be alive is incredible. So, when I received the offer to be in The 27 Club — by simply turning 27, nuts-deep in the arts — I was both humbled and frightened at the thought of not being here: I politely thanked the apophenia overlords and went on to look over my shoulder for the remainder of the year.
As a neurotic hypochondriac, everything is out to get me. During year 27, my affliction got worse. Even had I religiously worn a protective foam layer for the entirety of 27, I would’ve probably convinced myself that the sweat beading inside the safety suit was an allergic reaction and/or an indication of heat stroke. I was anxiety incarnate.
So, after a year of successfully avoiding death, I decided to fly from my parents’ Ohio home back to Washington on the eve of my 28th birthday; then, not because it would make for a more interesting story had the plane gone down, but because it was the cheaper flight. Not everything has meaning, I’ve found.
My death sniffer was off the charts. Every odd sound on the bumpy ride was considered a not-so-subtle communiqué from the notorious young-and-dead, a teasing that I passed off as a mid-air induction ceremony. At one point, I thought I saw Amy Winehouse’s gigantic, wing-tipped eyeball outside my window seat. I decided not to inform the guy next to me as he was only 19 and wouldn’t understand.
The descent into Seattle was a turbulence-filled nightmare, but no one else seemed to notice. Throughout the 5-hour trip, I ingested complimentary coffee and pretzels until I was nauseous, which led to a premonition of the fireball death dive we were all about to experience. It took every ounce of caffeinated buzziness flowing through me not to apologize to my fellow passengers for being 27.
It’s entirely possible that my age had nothing to do with the inconvenient weather. We landed safely, despite the turbulent efforts of the gigantic Amy Winehouse who was assigned to take down my plane. There probably weren’t enough 27-year-olds on board to justify the demise of everyone else, so I was spared. With sweaty palms, I thanked the flight attendants on the way out of the intact plane and they thanked me, too.
Heart’s “These Dreams” played over the loudspeakers as I walked on the solid ground of the Seattle airport. Every second of the night, I will indeed live another life.
Aging out of The 27 Club is something I expected, no matter how often I thought about dying this past year. The end of 27 came and I didn’t even stay up for it. No wonder I didn’t get in.
Since I won’t be joining Jimi and Janis in the Great Unknown, I will have to catch the next bus. I will likely die a regular death as a regular person at an insignificant age sometime in the future. I can only hope to live a full life with at least half a head of hair.
This weekend, we are driving to Aberdeen: the Washington logging town known for being the birthplace of Kurt Cobain. I’ll come as I am and graciously hand in my 27 Club card to Kurt, wherever he may be.
