We are marooned in the land of immortals, southern California. Isaac is soaking the Florida Panhandle and our flight is canceled, so we are destined to remain here and continue un-aging.
We hiked at Torrey Pines, land of the super-brights and a pinnacle of culture. After huffing around a 5 mile loop that descends from sagebrush hills to the Pacific coastline we passed, and more often got passed by, hordes of immortals. Conversation floated around us in a language salted by Co-enzyme Q-10. Age correlated more to a wealth index than a physical appearance.
I yearned to judge and despise them, but all I wanted was to be included, to rewind time, and drop my resting heart rate to twenty-six; to suspend the animation of my deteriorating cells to an immeasurable pace and linger in the twilight of immortality forever, comparing footwear and portfolios with my distinguished peers.
We brunched at the fabled club, where I hoped to be dismissed and made to feel less than, but my hate could find no purchase. Welcomed with warm smiles and concerned, pursed lips we were directed to a table by the practice green, where the ivy twines through the brickwork, and ocean breezes mingle scents of waffles and chaparral. The huevos? Delightful. The coffee? Warmly poured. To arrive at the Torrey Pines Lodge is to truly find the end of the line. Humankind can achieve no better.
Hence the goal to remain there forever.