I felt invisible for much of my teen years. Because of this, I was drawn to people like my best friend, who was dynamic and bold. She was the one who things happened to, the starting point of every story. I was the oracle, remembering each detail from my supporting role.
I immediately recognized him as the stereotypical member of my own age group: The Guy Who is Irritated by Everything. As we continued walking down the pavement, I made a silent resolution to myself: I will never allow myself to become a Grumpy Old Man. But in order to keep this resolution, I needed to look into some of the reasons that and something men turn into Oscar the Grouch. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it is understandable — terrifyingly understandable — why men my age start to turn sour. Most of us have spent our lives taking pride in at least some aspect of our physical capacities. Some of us have been proud of our bench-press strength.
There seems to be a gender imbalance, vis-a-vis the packaging thing. All the women I know are tolerant of middle age showing itself in a chap. We quite like a late flowering, in fact: the silvering, the smile lines, the coming of bodily sturdiness. We read these as signs that life has been lived and enjoyed. We read them as indicators of substance, of being substantial.
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