In My Shoes: The immortal years

I used to envy my college students their strong minds and stronger bodies. Their computers work so fast as they pull their all-nighters with a mere yawn.

But lately I've felt wistful about something else: their sense of immortality. Counselors, teachers and talking heads describe this invincible feeling as a sign of immaturity to be worked over and trained out.

Young people are criticized for making foolish choices, for not thinking about consequences, for failing to realize they are vulnerable. And the criticisms are valid. The inexperienced slam future career doors, choose the trans-fat option or greet psychopaths with smiles and phone numbers.

A 16-year-old I know well — full of promise, bright and sensitive, raised with all the advantages — has been strung out on cocaine the past few months, dealing it to keep up his supply. He has found a nice side benefit to the thrill; he can more easily buy other consumables, such as the latest cellphone. We who love him ganged up in an "intervention," pointing out the problem of dealing drugs, forming associations with guys with guns and traveling through life while hooked on chemicals. He caved and agreed to go to rehab, where another group of adults is trying to help him see differently the problematic path he has found so rewarding.

Why would a kid with so many good choices make such reckless ones? Why is it hard for him to recognize that he could go to jail or get shot or flunk out of high school just as easily as the guys he reads about or sees on TV?

Because, of course, he's immortal. The rules of consistency don't apply to young people. The stories of life punching you in the gut refer only to other people and their guts.

And those of us with bruised stomachs want to shake the youngsters we know and tell them to open their eyes, let go of their wilder instincts and be more careful.

But the source of their carelessness — their immortal sense — is also a gift. They haven't learned to live one day as if it might be their last. They're living like each day will go on and on. What a great thing that is.

It's a life without limits. A time of endless possibilities. It's the belief in eternity.

I'm at midlife, and I watch my friends stricken by unexpected tragedies. Who thinks about a brain tumor at 47 or cancer at 50? A budding musician killed while traveling to a gig, or a young father drowned by a sudden storm? The losses we accumulate in life take a toll on us. Those spring days become bitter as well as sweet. Is it already autumn again?

We lost our dog to cancer last year. She was a golden goofball. When we discovered she had just a few weeks left, we had the summer luxury of choosing to spend it with her. It seemed the time could be happy, with treats and swims and kisses. But the days we spent were tainted by our knowing. It was, after all, just a few more days.

Young people don't know that it's just a few more days. They can enjoy the treats and swims and kisses unblemished. Even when they are faced with tragedy, they bounce back more quickly. It's in the programming. They more easily maintain the belief that life will be kind to them. It will simply present them with choices they can make, tasks they can tackle, and rewards well-earned if they take risks.

It might work out that way, or it might not. But the belief that it will is the gift they have received, and it often serves them well. The feeling of immortality for the young is like spinach for Popeye. It gives them the daring to explore new worlds, risk injury on the athletic fields, fight our wars with optimism, and pledge lifelong commitment to lovers in the face of a future unknown.

Maybe those of us accumulating wrinkles and wisdom should spend less time trying to teach the smooth-skinned about consequences. Maybe they should be left to stumble. Because the alternative is making them give up that great wholesome feeling of infinity, that glorious dive into the breach, that flight over a cliff that leads some to soar.

There's always time for caution. There's time enough for that.