The only thing I can surmise about what it means to get older, and allegedly wiser, is that you learn to gradually filter out some of the insane follies you usually can't stop yourself from doing.
In the therapeutic sense, one would call this breaking destructive patterns. But it doesn't have to be so grandiose. It's stuff like:
-Don't buy more groceries than you can carry home.
-Plan to get to the station a full hour before the train leaves. Subways break down, cabs get stuck in traffic.
-Keep a spare set of housekeys at work.
-Layer your clothing.
If at this age I know all these things, why do I still:
-Stand in a store for 45 minutes, obsessing over every teensy component of every potential Christmas present, not having planned my shopping in advance.
-Wear clothes that fit in compromising ways, and/or have holes in them.
-Get on store lines that are far too long, knowing full well that by the time I check out, I'll be hopping mad.
-Blatantly goof off at work.
With this in mind, I actually bought an outfit to wear on Christmas Eve. I foresaw the problem: going out to dinner with my folks and embarrassing them by dressing, as usual, like a fat hooker. So I went to Old Navy and bought the cheapest sensible Ann Taylor knockoffs I could find. Wool/rayon pants. Button down shirt -- no darts, thanks. Perhaps I will clasp a pin at the neck.
Total bummer.
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