I have no intention of becoming sensible. Responsible, yes. Sensible, not entirely. There is a difference. Responsible means you pay attention to consequences. Sensible means you stop doing things that might become stories. I would prefer to keep the stories. Aging has a strange reputation. We talk about becoming wiser. More measured. More careful. Less impulsive. All excellent qualities. But somewhere in that process, people sometimes accidentally become less alive. They stop staying out late. Stop trying new things. Stop flirting. Stop traveling unless everything is perfectly comfortable. Stop wearing the dress. Stop taking the risk. Stop doing anything they might be bad at. Then one day life is extremely well managed and slightly dull. No thank you. I would like maturity without boredom. Is that available?
I am not proposing reckless behavior. I have learned enough to know that chaos is overrated. There are very few situations improved by legal trouble, bad judgment or a three-day hangover. But I still want mischief. Good mischief. The spontaneous trip. The last-minute reservation. The ridiculous outfit. The extra drink. The detour. The kiss you weren’t planning. The decision to stay another day. The story that begins, “This was probably a bad idea, but. . . ” Those are often the good ones. I think one of the privileges of getting older is that you care less about looking foolish. Or at least I hope so. You have survived embarrassment. You have survived bad hair. Bad choices. Bad photographs. Bad dates. Bad jobs. Bad trends. You begin to understand that almost nothing is as permanent as it felt at twenty-five. This creates freedom. You can dance badly. You can ask the question. You can admit you don’t know. You can go somewhere alone. You can change your mind. You can leave early. You can stay late. You can wear the thing. You can decide that what other people think is simply not the central organizing principle of your life. Very liberating.
I also think aging can make desire more interesting. When you’re young, attraction is often urgent. Biological. Chaotic. As you get older, taste enters. You know what kind of energy draws you in. What makes you laugh. What makes you feel safe. What bores you. What you will not tolerate. And what you still find irresistible despite knowing better. This last category remains important. Wisdom does not completely eliminate bad ideas. It merely improves labeling. You know the man is trouble. You know the trip is impractical. You know the shoes will hurt. You proceed with informed consent. Progress. I want to keep doing things that surprise me. That is the real goal. Not youth. Surprise. Youth is mostly surprise because everything is new. First apartment. First big job. First serious love. First international trip. First time you realize adults are making most of it up. Later, life can become repetitive unless you intentionally introduce novelty. So I intend to keep beginning. Learning. Traveling. Meeting people. Trying things badly. Changing scenery. Making slightly ridiculous plans.
Not because I am trying to imitate being young. That would be sad. But because curiosity should not have an expiration date. I also refuse to believe glamour has one. Why should beauty belong only to youth? There is beauty in polish. Confidence. Character. Taste. Knowing yourself. Knowing how to enter a room. Knowing when to leave one. Knowing exactly which lipstick works. These are skills. Time gives some things even as it takes others. That seems fair enough. I think men become more interesting this way too. The best older men are not pretending to be younger. They are not desperately chasing proof that they still matter. They are comfortable. Funny. Curious. Generous with experience. Still game. That’s attractive. A man who can say, “I’ve done a lot, and I still want to do more. ” Beautiful. That is the energy I want around me. Not frantic youthfulness. Appetite.
I want people who still want to see things. Eat things. Learn things. Touch things. Love things. People who have not mistaken cynicism for intelligence. There is nothing sophisticated about being unimpressed by everything. Delight is a better look. So yes, I intend to keep getting into trouble. Tasteful trouble. Elegant trouble. Trouble involving passport stamps and dessert. Maybe a convertible. Maybe a boat. Maybe a man I know perfectly well I should not find so charming. Life is finite. That is not tragic every day. Sometimes it is clarifying. You realize there are only so many summers. So many dinners. So many flights. So many nights when you feel beautiful and somebody interesting is looking at you. Use them. I plan to. Sensibly enough.