The older I get, the more I realize something incredibly disappointing.

Nobody is paying attention to me.

Now before you tell me that’s not true, hear me out.

For years I thought people were watching my every move. I worried about what they thought. I worried about whether they approved. I worried about whether I was succeeding, failing, embarrassing myself, or saying the wrong thing.

Then life fell apart.

The marriage imploded.

The strokes happened.

The career ended.

The substance use came to light.

Friends vanished.

And do you know what I discovered?

Most people were far too busy worrying about themselves to spend nearly as much time thinking about me as I imagined.

It’s honestly one of the most liberating realizations I’ve ever had.

I spent years trying to meet expectations that probably only existed in my own head.

Be successful.

Be productive.

Be social.

Be outgoing.

Be normal.

Whatever the hell normal means.

Now?

I spent twenty minutes this morning arguing with a tomato plant.

The tomato plant won.

I sat in a hot tub by myself tonight while discussing life decisions with a pit bull.

The pit bull’s advice was mostly centered around snacks.

I play Fallout with people from three different countries and somehow that’s become more meaningful than half the social interactions I had before retirement.

I eat dinner whenever I want.

I go to bed whenever I want.

I watch documentaries about Bigfoot without anyone questioning my life choices.

The reality is that somewhere along the way I stopped performing and started living.

Don’t get me wrong. I still have bad days.

I still get lonely.

I still miss people who are gone.

I still get angry about things that happened.

But there is a strange comfort in realizing that nobody is sitting in the audience grading your performance.

Most people aren’t even in the theater.

They’re busy trying to figure out their own lives.

And if they’re not?

Well, that’s probably their problem.

At this point in life I’ve decided that if someone wants to judge me for spending an evening in a hot tub with my dogs after surviving grief, strokes, PTSD, disability retirement, and more paperwork than should legally be allowed, they’re welcome to do so.

I’ve earned the right to be weird.

Honestly, surviving this much nonsense and not becoming a little weird would be suspicious.

“You know what? Maybe being left alone isn’t rejection. Maybe it’s permission.”▌