As I was doing the Ch. 8 Podcast the other day something occurred to me: most people I know stopped evolving at a certain point. For whatever reason, their interest in everything slowed to a virtual halt. I’m not immune to this.
I have a friend who wants to be 22 forever: goes to the bar three days a week, lives in an apartment, does his laundry at his parents’ house, won’t listen to music by bands that weren’t around in 1999…
I have another friend who seems to be stuck at 30 years old: constantly wants to have kids, always looking for a good deal on a house, looks down his nose at anyone who isn’t talking to a financial advisor about a 401(k)…
Then there’s me. I’m caught between several ages: I have the same hobby I’ve had since I was a boy, I drink Slurpees like they’re a reward for good behavior (“I changed Quinoa’s diaper today; I deserve one!”), I try to keep in the same shape I was at 25, I don’t engage with people who I don’t come into contact with everyday (that was a philosophy of mine in college; I was meeting so many people so often that I made a rule where I wouldn’t try to get to know anyone’s name unless I saw them at least five times)… but there’s hope.
Whenever I hang out with these people – some at a bar, some in their “custom man cave” – the majority of the conversation centers around reminiscing. They miss being 22 or 30 (or in one case, “Don’t you miss being a little kid and falling asleep in the car and having your mom carry you to your bed?”) or whatever. They miss – constantly – playing video games or playing football or drinking ’til dawn or finding a good mortgage rate or smelling babies. They want to go back. But I don’t.
I want to move forward. I want to have an actual conversation with my kids. I want to be a little fat. I want to make new friends. I want to eat vegetables and get excited about retirement and go on vacation to a place I’ve never been and be surprised by a new band.
So there’s the hope; I don’t look back that often.
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