Wednesday. Sixty-three. 2026 – 1963 = 63.

Well, I guess it’s time for another little inventory. In my youth, I aimed so hard not to make it much past 30. Now here I am, more than twice that age, several years older than my mom ever got to be, and with a good chance of soon passing my dad. Hopefully. He left the stage at 65.

Something in me obviously refuses to throw in the towel, even if – despite this auspicious milestone – I’m still looking for the instruction manual…

Sometimes I wonder if it’s simply the breaks between the rounds that make it worth hanging on in the ring. But why do I manage when my brother didn’t? Probably because I hit the jackpot with Charlotte and Elle. Love is a damn strong sealant for patching up life’s cracks.

Or maybe the friction and the fighting are the whole point? That we’re each a modern-day Odysseus on an eternal odyssey. Desperately trying to find our way home to peace, but constantly thrown off course by new monsters and distractions along the way.

It’s started to sink in that eventually, I’m going to lose the final battle, now that I’m back in my 60s – this time as a confused old dude in my seventh decade.

But how many more rounds do I have to go? Who knows. 

When the Oscar-winning One Battle After Another came out last year, I thought: Jesus, what a brilliant movie title. Is it about me?

The battles might not be harder now than they used to be, but they definitely take a heavier toll, and they wear down my knees and my psyche a little more. I catch myself puffing, groaning, and sighing much more often these days. Yet, I live in a slightly incomprehensible symbiosis with my battles.

Like a crackhead who absolutely needs his daily dose of adversity just to feel his pulse beat. Maybe life would be way too boring without the challenges – without a few serious ditches to crawl out of and some steep mountains to climb over or around.

The question is: do I enjoy the fight itself, or is it actually that brief, almost euphoric moment when the “release” finally comes that I’m chasing? Those who know what I am talking about know what I am talking about.

At the same time, there’s obviously a comical gap in my perception: what I experience as an epic field battle is everyday life for others. So do I just have a low pain threshold, or am I getting too comfortable for life’s Whac-A-Mole?

At least two of my friends are currently fighting it out in a real purgatory. Cancer, in both cases. For them, the battle is hardly some romanticized metaphor.

A younger buddy called me the other day. As usual, he only gets in touch when the sky is falling. That’s perfectly fine. This time he was depressed because everyone else on social media looked so offensively happy. All his friends were more successful, raking in more money, and living a glamorous, carefree life, while he himself was treading water. Rudderless. I explained that that’s all just a mirage. No living person goes around being constantly happy. It’s especially rare among folks trying to make a living through creativity (which is what this buddy does).

And the really rich practically work full-time trying to convince themselves – and the world – just how incredibly successful they are.

See, I said, the battles are part of the package. One battle after another.

Some people have just bought nicer facades. They live behind their polished surfaces and would sooner die than let the neighbors catch a glimpse of the doubt lurking right behind the smile – their very own “triangle of sadness.”

A different and older buddy observed recently that over the years, it’s become much easier to see through the smokescreens and simply not give a damn what people think.

That it’s actually nice to sit in the stands with a beer in hand instead of standing right in the middle of the boxing ring, taking punch after punch. It was liberating to hear, even if I’m not quite there yet.

A totally different friend my age from Skåne went to a shrink every week for nearly twelve years. He spent half a million on it.

Then the pandemic came, the wallet went empty, and the shrinking ended. Do I notice any difference in him today? Not much. But maybe he got a decent toolbox to keep the ghosts at bay and the demons at a safe distance.

Though a little self-medication is still required now and then so he can disconnect from the battles for a moment and feel that long-awaited “release.”

Personally, I’ve upgraded the gym into a therapist’s couch. Physically, I actually think I’m in better mental and physical shape today than half a lifetime ago, when I was a wild fella of 31 and a half. But the real gain is between my ears. Everything else is pure bonus. Plus, the training has the excellent side effect of letting me treat myself to a little something extra without getting into a fight with my conscience. One battle at a time, please.

Started the day with a run around Söder and Reimersholme. Then a nice swim before the champagne cork flew off with a “pop.” Later, I was served breakfast in bed, treated to Japanese for lunch, and soon Greek for dinner.

Thanks for another lovingly soft landing, Charlotte! Thanks, Elle, for existing in Papi’s life. And thanks for all the wonderful congratulations via social media and over the phone.

Sixty-three. Not too bad.