So You've Got a New Lease on Life

"I've been given this huge gift, and I'm afraid I'll waste it."

So You've Got a New Lease on Life
Welcome back our resident genie, with his regular advice column.

'Tis I, your gentle genie, answering a letter that's near to my heart.

Dear Genie,
Something happened to me this morning, and I'm desperate to know what I should do about it. I was on the sidewalk beside a one-lane road, and a guy on a Vespa was next to me, waiting to turn left. A truck came up behind him, and didn't see him until the last minute, then swerved toward the sidewalk, right toward me, and I realized I was about to die. There wasn't time to dive out of the way, only half a second to make eye contact with the terrified truck driver.

Then, I swear to you, space expanded for a second. That truck didn't have room to squeeze between me and the Vespa guy, but, somehow, the driver did it. He came up on the curb. I felt his mirror brush my sleeve, and then he was past me, past the Vespa guy, and he went on down the road.

I can't stop thinking that in some other universe, the normal universe, I died this morning, but I got transferred to a different universe where I get to go on living. The strange thing is, I'm scared. Not of trucks or anything. I'm scared I won't make the most of it. Does that make any sense? I've been given this huge gift, and I'm afraid I'll waste it.
Still Here

Dear Still Here,
I'm glad you brought this up. It addresses a concern that's been bothering me since my advice to Uncertain Friend, when I said to "use your days." That's good advice, but there's fine print we should talk about.

When I give someone a new lease on life—cure a disease, prevent an injury, reset the clock somehow—I'd estimate that only one in six of them makes a profound, positive change in their life. And that's not always a bad thing. People want extra days because they like their lives. Of those six hypothetical people, three spend their new lives doing the same things they did before. Take the inventor who wished away his bone cancer. He went on inventing stuff, and, boom, you've got a horse-powered threshing machine. (I know, I should find a new example for that.) Point is, there's no need to change. Just last year I tweaked the past to save a kid from a bus accident, and she was so excited to go home and watch Stranger Things. Why should I judge that? Maybe I'll reserve a side-eye for the guy who used his extra decade playing 4,000 hands of canasta. If you've played two hands of canasta, you've played them all.

For another two out of the six, though, their lives get worse because of their extension, and that's the danger I sense in you, Still Here. Some people get all up in their heads when they know they're on bonus time. They start to wonder if they're living hard enough. Could they pack more joy into this moment? More beauty? More love? What about all the things they should be doing, the plays they could be writing, the squeaky wheels they could be greasing. They award themselves negative points for time they spend napping, flossing, daydreaming, driving. Negative points for doing their 'same-old' job. Negative points for each microwave meal that could have been gourmet. Finally they decide they've lost a game that's patently unloseable. (Unless you become an asshole—that's the one way to lose.) So try not to go in for all that stuff.

But it sounds to me, Still Here, like you want to change your life, reinvent yourself, vault your proverbial garden wall. That can happen! I've seen it done. Some people seize the day, strike while the iron is hot. They make that phone call they should have made ten years ago, or cash in their savings and finally buy that boat. You could do that, but I might suggest you don't.

It's easy to be reckless when you get an unexpected reprieve. You feel untouchable, and every thought feels important. Sometimes those thoughts are important. The insight you have, when death brushes by, could be the key that unlocks your true passion. Or it might be the frenzied voice of panic. It might be—forgive the pun—a passing fancy. Spare a thought for the dying businessman who wished for one more sunset, and decided, as the sky turned orange, to call his secretary and confess his love. Poor guy, he ugly-cried through the prettiest part.

Here's what I'd suggest: As soon as you can, write down all the things that went through your mind when you thought you were checking out early. Did you know in a thunderclap that you should have been a lumberjack? This is good! But do not—please let my experience guide you in this—do not go straight to the woods with a chainsaw. Do put a note on your bedroom wall, including the first step you might take in exploring that territory. (Buy a flannel shirt, perhaps.) Write down your small thoughts, too. If your nearly-final worry was the medical examiner beholding your funky teeth, add the word "Dentist" to your To Do list. Actually, in that case, make the appointment. You won't regret a rash decision to get your teeth cleaned.