Say no, without explanation.
When you reach your mid 50s, the list of things you don’t want to do gets longer. 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 like I’m experiencing the music on a profound level, when in reality I can’t wait for them to stop, so I can fuck off home. I find crowds not claustrophobic 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, depression is the new black. 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 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. And the truth is, sex without love is like avocado without salt. Most of you will know what I mean. Okay shut up.
I remember the moment I snuck into my first nightclub at 16. I felt something change. I moved from child to teenager. I remember choosing to drink my coffee black. I moved from suburban to urban. These moments marked a change. So too having zero interest in sex, it signified ‘getting old’ and the end of self-inflicted sexual slavery.
The unexpected side effect of diminishing sex drive was the draining of joy from my body. As spermatogenesis fizzled like fireworks in the rain so did the brains ability to produce serotonin. 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. Your 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 old.
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.
I must not, I must not, I must not let this slide into cynicism, bitterness and contempt.
I must accept my new role as an excitement voyeur and smile my 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. Feels good doesn’t it, old person?
I dedicate this blog to Terry McGrath, the oldest teenager in Sydney, who even in his 60s propped up bars and never once gave up on a 3 day weekend without sleep. Terry McGrath embodied the spirit of Sydney before the millennium and I miss him like my perky arse. Terry would say “Keep up with the kids Blanche, just because you don’t understand it, doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it”. Terry, I hear you doll. Call a cab, I’m going out.