When you reach your mid 50s your list of things you don’t want to do gets longer. Either because you’ve done it a million times already or you figure your time is limited so you chose to only do what you really want to do, which is usually stay in and growl disapprovingly at the tele. On this tele, I watch people getting excited by live performance and I wonder why. I was one of them once, I loved going to see live music. Now whenever I’m in front of band, it feels contrived, like I’m pretending to enjoy it. Tapping my foot, nodding emphatically, when in reality I can’t wait for them to stop, so I can fuck off home. I find crowds not claustrophobic as such but an unnecessary cluster of human flesh. I hate seeing young people enjoying themselves.
“Perhaps your depressed”, my partner says. Of course I’m depressed. Everyone is, it’s the new old black. I’ve always been depressed and so have you. I’m convinced the serotonin I so liberally destroyed in the 1990s has now depleted permanently. The testosterone that made it impossible to go without a daily self pleasuring has faded except if I happen to brush passed it while adjusting my hernia. Sure I still get the brain horn but not the full body compulsion to have it hard. Sex without love is like avocado without salt. Most of you will know what I mean.
I remember the moment I snuck into my first nightclub. I felt something change. I moved from child to teenager. I remember choosing to drink coffee without milk. I felt more cool. These moments are significant for me, for some reason. So too having zero interest in sex, it signified the start of the official draining of my body of excitement. I still feel joy but not JOY. My 62 year old friend describes his excitement these days as “a low hum not high pitched”. I love this. It’s true, you’re not as easily impressed after 50. You’re appreciation is set at a lower frequency. But one must not let this slide into cynicism, bitterness and contempt, as compatible as these vices are when you’re an old bastard.
I had tickets to the coolest gig in town recently, I walked in and asked the bar attendant what time the gig started, the bar attendant said 9pm. It was 6pm. I said ‘fuck that’ and walked out. A beer cost nearly 10 pounds, say I drink 1 beer every 10 minutes, I was looking at 120 pounds to wait around with a bunch of desperate wankers silently justifying the expense to themselves. As I walked out the bouncer said ‘do you want a stamp so you can come back?’ I said ‘no’ and shook his hand, to make sure he knew he was to blame and establish an older man superiority. ‘Sorry’ he said. Sorry is the only word left, sometimes.
But I repeat, this tragic inability to enjoy yourself must not let this slide into cynicism, bitterness and contempt, as compatible as these vices are when you’re an old bastard. You must accept your new role as an excitement voyeur and smile your way through the crowd or leave early or don’t go at all.
Say no, without explanation.
“Do you want to go…?”
“No”.
Hear that low hum? That’s the resounding satisfaction of saying no without the explanation.