More or Less Stupid

I got a call from a reporter for a local magazine last week, wanting an interview for their September cover story. Because I am a writer who prefers cave life to that of a public persona, I was happy (and flattered) to play along. We set up a time and I picked out some goofy photos for their article. 

Now you might be wondering what kind of magazine would be interested in writing an article about me, especially one that would want me on their front cover. As it turns out, a very specific sort of magazine that will one day be relevant to most of us. (If we are lucky.)

The magazine was First Coast Senior Living They were looking for someone who represented success as a working senior, and they obviously did not know me well enough to realize their mistake. The reporter was quick to assure me that I characterized the youngest edge of being a senior, and that I should not worry about being included in that community. I did not tell her that I mentally aged out at about seventeen, so the actual maturity of the rest of me has never been a particular sticking point.

More on that in a moment.

The interview went on a bit longer than I expected. An hour and a half, in fact, which was fun for me. I am my favorite subject to discuss with anyone, and at great length. (You probably would not know from this and all the other things I have written about myself, unless you are an uncannily astute observer of the human condition. Also, astoundingly wise, clever, and good-looking.)

But there is an unintended side effect of being called on like this. Unless you are very used to being interviewed (which I am not) and have a ready stock of prepared answers (which I will not admit to), you will be asked questions that no one has ever asked you before and will be forced to think of yourself in ways you might not have in the past.

“What’s the worst thing about growing older?”

I honestly had no answer for this. At all. My life is so much better now than when I was young, there was just nothing there. I’m in better health now than I have been in the last twenty years, and that’s after the diabetes diagnosis. I love Lena more than ever, I love my job, my environment, and my ability to protect and maintain those things. And I am way less stupid. (This last point is relative. Being less stupid than I was as a young man is not exactly a high bar.)

“Why are you a writer?”

This one was a little easier, at least at first. My canned response was that I am not really good for much else, but the extended nature of the interview allowed her to dig a little deeper. The truth is that I have always resented working my ass off for another person and only bringing home ten percent of what I made. (I’ve done the math, and even ten percent is with me being paid far more than I deserved to be.) The deeper truth, and the one that relates to my mental faculties having topped out at seventeen, is that I have never gotten over my teenaged rebellious phase. This is colloquially known as having a “Problem with Authority.” I just hate having a boss that isn’t me. (Obviously Lena doesn’t count.)

So, does being a fundamentally immature person who has chosen to write in order to avoid a real job make me an aspirational figure to others of my senior status? (More or less my status, that is. Youngest edge and all.) Anyway, I don’t really know. I think I’m pretty dope, but I’m not me. There is a part of me that is convinced my face on the cover is going to tank the magazine and they will go out of business forever and a generation of first coast seniors will go back to smoking cigarettes behind the gym and hanging out in video arcades for recreation instead of reading aspirational magazines about dumbasses with authority issues.

Now I just want to play some Pacman.