I've been thinking about my own mortality lately. It has to do with becoming 35.

There are various levels of obsession, mine reaches to just above the absurd level. Through it, I'm more aware now, for example, of how all the things I did -- and other things that happened to shape my life -- did in fact shape my life.

One early moment that I always look back to was what was at that time a really unremarkable instance. My father, vexed by what turned out to be just a bunch of extorting petty criminals, asked me if I wanted to move to another school, in particular, one that was not in my hometown. It took me half a second to answer: no.

I often think about what would have happened if I said yes instead. Had I said yes, I would have instantly lost all, if not most, of the things I truly cherish now -- most especially now that I am dealing with this, my 35th year. I would have lost, in all likelihood, the friendship of the nicest bunch of lunatics a guy could have ever gone to school with. Sure, I would have made friends, and I have. But they are irreplaceable.

I would have, in all likelihood, never met -- and found happiness through -- some of the most amazing people in my life: they, who could never quite grow up, who mentored me through change and encouraged me through challenges, whose place in my heart are as secure as mine is in theirs, who say goodnight to me every evening; they who make me feel immortal. They are all the brightest fireflies in my jar, and I keep them very near.

If there is to be one, maybe two, of those moments, I hope that I now have wisdom, or the lack of it, to make the right choice. Surely now that my bones are weaker, I have to take at least more than a second before I make a guess.