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In my younger days, I worried about becoming irrelevant. Now that I’m 49 weeks away from turning 60 years old, I don’t care any more. In fact, I put that concern aside a long time ago, just about the time I realized (a) it didn’t matter what other people thought about me, and (2) I was already a fringe player in my own world and unlikely to be a star on any stage. I don’t matter, and it just doesn’t matter. How liberating.
Yeah, well, I never cared to be kowtowed to anyhow. Would I have known what to do if beseeched by supplicants? I think not. And when you have a fancy schmancy title, it comes with a lot of pressure. They call the pope “your holiness,” but I have my doubts. Holier than the rest of us, maybe, but “holiness” sounds like the essence of something a little beyond credibility.
I’m glad I don’t have to keep up with music trends and can just like what I like. I was a charter subscriber to Rolling Stone, back when it was all about the music I listened to, but then it moved on, and I didn’t. Not only that, I didn’t want to. There’s little use in trying to be cool when your degree of coolness isn’t valued, so I internalized my coolness. I’m a big fan of a lot of stuff nobody much cares about, least of all the trendsetters and fashion leaders. They’re doing just fine without me, though, and more power to them.
Fashion, did I say? I’ve never been cutting edge in that department, and it never bothered me back when people made fun of what I wore. Now, they don’t even notice. When you get to A Certain Age, those in the know no longer notice you, or what you wear, or how your hair is trimmed. It’s much better to live this way, on the outside of the inner circle, where you don’t have to answer to anyone, or even to think you have to answer. They’ve stopped asking the questions. |
