Getting Older Means The Good Bowl Is for Tuesday
Somewhere in the last few years, I quietly became a person with opinions about things I never used to notice. Restaurant lighting, for example. The number of pillows allowed on a bed. Whether a hotel has an outlet next to the nightstand.
And yet, here we are.
Maybe this is one of the unexpected pleasures of getting older. You spend enough years trying things, wearing things, sitting through things, and politely tolerating things, and eventually you develop opinions.
Not important opinions. I’m not solving world problems here.
Just the kind that make everyday life a little better.
Restaurants Should Be Bright Enough to See the Food
I appreciate atmosphere. I really do.
But there is a point where “moody lighting” becomes “I have no idea what is on my plate.”
If I need the flashlight on my phone to read the menu, we may have taken ambiance too far. And nothing makes you feel particularly sophisticated like holding a menu six inches from your face while tilting it toward a candle.
Dim is lovely
Dark is a power outage.
Uncomfortable Shoes Have Lost Their Negotiating Power
There was a time when I could be persuaded.
“They’ll stretch.”
“They just need breaking in.”
“They’re actually pretty comfortable once you get used to them.”
No.
If my feet are unhappy while I’m standing on carpet in a shoe store, they are not going to become happier after three hours on concrete.
I still love beautiful shoes. I’ve simply decided beautiful and comfortable need to start seeing each other.
Decorative Pillows Need a Limit
I love a beautiful bed.
I love pillows.
But at some point, pillows stopped being bedding and became a nightly relocation project.
If getting into bed requires removing nine decorative cushions, two bolsters, and something shaped like a knot, perhaps we need to reconsider.
A few beautiful pillows? Absolutely.
An obstacle course? No.
The Good Things Are for Regular Days
This one took me longer to learn.
The pretty serving bowl. The nicer glasses. The candle that smells too good to burn. The blouse I’m saving for somewhere special.
I used to be very good at saving things.
But eventually I started wondering what exactly I was saving them for.
Tuesday dinner counts.
So does coffee with a friend. So does eating takeout at the kitchen counter.
I’m increasingly convinced that using the things we love is better than keeping them perfect.
A Pretty Chair Still Has to Be Comfortable
I have fallen for many beautiful but completely impractical things over the years.
Chairs are particularly deceptive.
They sit there looking elegant and sophisticated, and then you actually sit in one and discover it was apparently designed for someone with an entirely different skeletal system.
I now believe furniture should pass a very simple test:
Would I voluntarily remain here for an hour?
If the answer is no, I don’t care how beautiful it looks next to the window.
This philosophy may apply to more than furniture.
I Am No Longer Finishing Things Just Because I Started Them
Books. Television shows. Occasionally a very large dessert.
I used to feel strangely obligated to finish things.
If I had read 100 pages of a book, surely I should finish the other 250.
Why?
Those 100 pages already happened. There is no committee awarding medals for perseverance through boring fiction.
The same goes for television. If I’m six episodes into a series and still asking when it gets good, I have my answer.
There are too many good books, good shows, and good desserts left in the world.
And Could Everything Please Stop Needing an App
I don’t want another app.
I especially don’t want another app just to do something that used to take thirty seconds.
Parking the car? Download the app.
Ordering lunch? Download the app.
Getting a discount at a store? Download the app.
And of course, creating the account is never enough. I need a password, a verification code, my location, permission to send notifications, and apparently a long-term relationship with a company I only wanted to buy one thing from.
Sometimes I just want to park the car.
That’s it.
No account. No password. No notification three days later asking how I’m enjoying my parking experience.
Maybe It’s Not About Becoming More Opinionated
I don’t think getting older necessarily makes us fussier.
Maybe we just know ourselves better.
We know which shoes will end up under the restaurant table halfway through dinner. We know which things are worth our time and which ones simply aren’t. We know that the candle isn’t doing anyone any good sitting untouched on a shelf.
And maybe we’ve finally realized that life doesn’t need to be saved for later.
Wear the comfortable shoes.
Light the candle.
Use the good bowl.
Skip the book you don’t like.
And if the restaurant is too dark to read the menu, turn on your phone flashlight.
At this point, I have absolutely no shame about it.
