Classic — Being A ‘Hard Grader’
Well, it’s official. I’m old. It’s not because I celebrated another birthday. It’s not about beginning yet another new year. And get this—it isn’t necessarily a bad thing! If I can manage to find a little wisdom coupled with years, I’ll be happy. After all, I can’t change the passage of time.
Well, it’s official. I’m old. It’s not because I celebrated another birthday. It’s not about beginning yet another new year. And get this—it isn’t necessarily a bad thing! If I can manage to find a little wisdom coupled with years, I’ll be happy. After all, I can’t change the passage of time.
So how did I come to this realization? It’s not what you think. It wasn’t the occasional ache or pain or the few extra pounds. (And I still want that facelift). Oh no, this revelation hit me last night. I’ve been working up to it for a long time, and touched on it before. Zack and I were watching one of his beloved classic movies. (That means “old.” Maybe I should be writing that I’m “classic.” It has a finer ring to it). Anyway, the character, an aged Chinese man, claimed that he no longer went out at night. He said something like this, “I’ve lived long enough to realize that if I don’t go out, I won’t be aware that I missed anything.” I’d add that, in the end, there often isn’t anything important to miss. This realization can only come with experience, age, and possibly retirement.
Not only am I mostly uninterested in nightlife now (never much enjoyed it after New York), but other than the occasional local movie, I’m not dying to swim into a sea of humanity to participate in or watch something less than stellar. It’s the law of diminishing returns. How much trouble will I go to — to experience something of questionable quality? Have I become lazy or just superbly picky? (Even pickier than I was before. Zack and I call this “being a hard grader.” We’ve both always been very hard graders). So thank goodness for books, Dish Network, and Netflix.
My father often told me, “It’s better to be lonely than bored”. And he was so right. That’s part of it. And I may not be the most social person in the world either. Some of us are, and some of us aren’t. I’m always busy, satisfied with my own company — and Zack’s. (And that of my kids when they’re around). At the end of the day, I’m quite happy to be home. The thing that trumps my “going out aversion” is good friends. Good friends can balance a multitude of sins in an otherwise boring evening.
The other tip-off to my “classic wisdom” (see, I didn’t say “age”) is this: I’m becoming even more bored with fashion magazines. When I slid from city life to country life and began my new career as a ranch hand, the transformation was set in motion. My lifestyle and clothing needs changed. But even then, I still enjoyed opening my new fashion magazine each month. So what if I wasn’t going to buy that cute little number and wear it to some Broadway opening? It was still fun to look. I still like to be fashionable and presentable. In New York, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on Vogue or W. In casual Florida, those seemed a bit too mature and serious for me. As my daughter grew into a teenager and then a college student and young woman, my tastes in fashion seemed to become more juvenile (instead of older to match my age). I was still young enough and thin enough to get away with it. I subscribed to Lucky and Style, two little luxuries in a simple life. They were fresher and more innovative (if a little too young for me). After all, I’m an artist, a creative person. I can appreciate a little whimsy. Last year, however, both began to seem particularly irrelevant and silly. Did they change or did I? (Zack says I went from Cartier to Carhart). So I ran back to Vogue, hoping to find an old friend.
Either the world of fashion has completely passed me by or I finally can’t suspend disbelief long enough to get into it. It’s always been about selling new clothing styles to the masses each season, convincing us that we must have the latest fashion. Madison Avenue’s entire raison d’etre is to shake things up. That way everyone won’t keep their old clothes until they wear out (as I often do now). And really, $300 for a piece of costume jewelry? $2,000 for a handbag? Please.
Last night was the final straw. As I looked at an issue of one of these magazines, I told Zack (who really doesn’t care, but acted politely interested for about five seconds), “These styles are ridiculous. Now it’s gotten too crazy even for me.” Zack asked what I meant. “Let me see them,” he demanded. After looking at a few pages of what seemed to be circus costumes coupled with camo and camping, he had to agree. (And then he went gratefully back to his movie). We both decided it’s better to be classic. Not old. But classic.
