It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that just because someone looks old, it doesn't mean they feel old. Other than occasional lapses of memory and wearing mismatched socks, I don't feel anywhere near as old as I look. And my decision to grow out my predominantly gray beard doesn't help.
But still, at times I forget how old I am an how old I'm getting until I look in the mirror and see the old stranger looking back at me. And I gasp and ask myself, "Who the fuck is that?"
Oh, I know I'm old. I am relieved in some ways because much of the garbage you surround yourself with when you are young wears away with age. I don't give a shit about how I look most of the time for one thing. For the most part I am invisible and no one cares. But on the other hand, I accept I just am and no one is going to be impressed with me one way or the other.
No one is ever going to be impressed with me. That is a hard lesson to learn. Because the young me wanted desperately for someone to see how very special I was. I wanted them to know how creative and clever I was. I wanted them to be surprised at how deep and quirky I was. And if they weren't, I just chalked it off to them not seeing the real me.
It was only in my old age that I realized no one cared about how clever I was or wasn't. It was a hard lesson to learn. But at the same time, it has been cathartic. I realize that my memoirs would be of no interest to anyone. I used to think my children would be fascinated about my life before they were born. But they too barely know I'm in the room let alone have any curiosity about who I was or am.
I wonder if this is true with everyone as they age?
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