On my next birthday (in a scant 2 weeks) I'll be 32.  3-2.  That is spelled O-L-D.  At least, in my mind which still thinks I'm about 20.

I mean, I still feel good.  Actually, I'm in better shape than I was when I was 20.  Maybe even better than when I was 16.  But then, I was 16.  I might as well have been made of Kevlar and cast iron.  At least, that's how I remember myself.

Of course at that time, I wasn't a hypochendriac.  But I was an anxious person.  At least as it pertained to death and other such things.  I remember when the Soviet Union broke up thinking there would be a nuclear war at any moment.  I remember freaking out when I saw an airplane fly over during the first Iraq war cause I thought it would have chemical weapons on it.  I remember breaking down thinking I'd be drafted.

These are not the thoughts of a normal teenager.  I should have know something was up.  Now, 16 years later, I'm really none the wiser.  Still worried just about different things.  Maybe more important things.  I don't worry about my mortality so much as what the loss of me might do to my family.

I don't agree with some people's assertion that hypochondria is a selfish or "self-focused" problem.  That's a part of it.  But I think more of the concern is how will our friends and family deal with our early demise.  How will they go on without me?

I guess this is, in itself, selfish.