The Joy of Missing Out

Getting old is like a birthday party that just keeps on giving.

Not the kind where someone hands you another scented candle or a pair of fuzzy socks. More like Mary Poppins’ carpetbag. You keep reaching in, convinced you’ve found the bottom, and out comes something else entirely.

“Oh! I didn’t know that was in there.”

This week’s surprise?

I have absolutely no interest in fireworks.

Our little town hosts a huge Fourth of July celebration. We had planned to take our grandkids, but by evening they were tired. It had been a full day of parade, games, ball, and enough excitement for one holiday. They needed to go home to bed.

Our daughter asked if Hubs and I were going to go anyway.

We both answered—perhaps a little too quickly—

“Oh no.”

Not even a discussion.

Just... no.

Our little town has somehow become the little town all of Los Angeles seems to descend upon every weekend. The Fourth was particularly ridiculous.

So. Many. People.

Crowds.

Noise.

Traffic.

Waiting.

Parking.

More people.

I realized something as we skirted the crazy and instead went to our friend’s place where there were just a few of us gathering around food and fire.

I don’t really do crowds anymore.

Not because I can’t.

Because I don’t want to.

That’s the surprise.

I used to thrive in the middle of the busy. I loved conferences, bustling airports, packed events, and calendars with very little white space. Somewhere along the way, however, the woman who wanted to be where everything was happening quietly slipped out the back door.

The woman who remained would rather sit on a porch with one good cup of coffee than stand shoulder to shoulder with ten thousand strangers waiting for something to explode.

I didn’t realize that old age would come with preferences.

Real ones.

Not opinions borrowed from everyone else but settled convictions about what actually fills my soul—and what simply fills a parking lot.

There was a time I’d have packed lawn chairs, mosquito spray, glow sticks, sweaters, snacks, and enough bottled water to irrigate Saskatchewan.

Now the conversation sounds more like this:

“Should we go?”

“Nah.”

Meeting adjourned.

I’m discovering that one of the gifts of my Thursday years is permission.

Permission to say no.

Permission to leave early.

Permission to skip the event everyone else insists is “the place to be.”

Permission to admit that I simply don’t enjoy some things anymore.

Oddly enough, my world doesn’t feel smaller.

It feels clearer.

I’ve traded spectacle for substance.

These days I’d rather watch my grandchildren color than watch rockets climb into the sky.

I’d rather linger over coffee with Hubs than circle a parking lot looking for a space.

I’d rather hear the wind in the trees than another rendition of “God Bless America' over a loudspeaker.

I know.

Who have I become?

Somewhere between Eeyore and Piglet, I think.

A little cautious.

A little curmudgeonly.

Rather fond of quiet.

And, surprisingly, quite content.

Finding my own rhythm in old age has become a challenge I'm thoroughly enjoying. I’m making slower decisions. I’m no longer feeling pressed by the crowd. I’m discovering that I don’t have to want what everyone else wants simply because everyone else wants it.

Perhaps this is one of God’s surprising gifts of aging.

From the very beginning He built rhythms into creation—morning and evening, planting and harvest, work and Sabbath. Our Thursday years have rhythms too.

Less noise.

More noticing.

Less rushing.

More resting.

Less proving.

More contentment.

The fireworks went off that night without me.

I’m sure they were spectacular.

I sat with friends around the firepit instead.

I didn’t feel like I’d missed a thing.

Now, had my grandchildren stayed for the fireworks, that's exactly where you would have found me.

Because they trump every one of my Thursday-year preferences.

Every time.

Love is louder than old age.

And let’s be clear, I’m not THAT old yet. But it’s coming.

Big Brains: "I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone." — Lord Byron

Old Souls: “When there is noise and crowds, there is trouble; When everything is silent and perfect, There is just perfection and nothing To fill the air.” ― Dejan Stojanovic

The Ancient of Days: “…but they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid, for the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken.” Micah 4:4 (ESV)

Norma Jean:
Love is louder than old age.

Thursday Chat: What gift has surprised you in old age?