In my younger days, I worried about becoming irrelevant. Now that Iím 49 weeks away from turning 60 years old, I donít care any more. In fact, I put that concern aside a long time ago, just about the time I realized (a) it didnít 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 donít matter, and it just doesnít 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 ďyour holiness,Ē but I have my doubts. Holier than the rest of us, maybe, but ďholinessĒ sounds like the essence of something a little beyond credibility.
Iím glad I donít 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 didnít. Not only that, I didnít want to. Thereís little use in trying to be cool when your degree of coolness isnít valued, so I internalized my coolness. Iím a big fan of a lot of stuff nobody much cares about, least of all the trendsetters and fashion leaders. Theyíre doing just fine without me, though, and more power to them.
Fashion, did I say? Iíve never been cutting edge in that department, and it never bothered me back when people made fun of what I wore. Now, they donít 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. Itís much better to live this way, on the outside of the inner circle, where you donít have to answer to anyone, or even to think you have to answer. Theyíve stopped asking the questions.