Over 40 ... what I've learned and what I haven't

I read a New York Times piece by Pamela Druckerman about the things that you learn in your 40s.

Being nearly a couple years into my fifth decade, I clicked the link. I actually wasn't all that impressed, except for her writing, "Among my peers there’s a now-or-never mood: We still have time for a second act, but we’d better get moving on it" (yup) and "By your 40s, you don’t want to be with the cool people; you want to be with your people" (also yup, although this actually dates back to my teens, because I've never been one of the cool people, more on that later).

However, it got me to thinking about the lessons I've learned, not necessarily since I turned 40, but as I've gotten older, and one came to mind almost instantly ... sometimes, it's best to just walk away from an argument.

To the people who know me, this has an outstanding chance of causing convulsion-level laughter, since I am an extraordinarily argumentative person. Several years ago, a co-worker hit me with perhaps the only argument you can't win unless you're trying to make one without the advantage of facts on your side ... "You're argumentative." Don't argue, and you're admitting the other person is right. Argue that you're not, which is what I think I did, and you're proving it.

Yet as time goes by, I try to pick my spots more. I'll argue about sports all day, because it's fun and ultimately harmless, and if there's something that really needs to be said, I'll say it. (I'm basically known among my peers as the "tell us how you really feel" guy.)

I'm learning the wisdom, however, of sometimes just letting stuff go. There's always a better fight to be had somewhere, and a lot of times arguing is just pointless. For example, I have several family members and friends whose political views are the opposite of mine, and the things they sometimes say or write on Facebook make me nuts.

Once upon a time, I argued with them, bringing what I (of course) believed were my superior information and rhetorical skills to the table. And what did it get me? Usually hours of comments and counter-comments that didn't change anyone's mind and just left me more upset. My blood pressure thanks me that I only do that once in a great while now.

Also, when people are younger, they believe every hill is the one worth dying on. I probably did the same thing. Now, though, when I do decide to charge up the hill, I'll fight like hell, but when I reach the point where I realize (or someone makes me realize) that I'll be dead if I keep going, I try to have the good sense to back down the hill.

After all, what good is dying on a hill if it means you can't charge up the next, bigger one?

When it comes to letting stuff go in other parts of my life, however, I've realized that I still have a lot of work to do.

As noted above, I was never the cool kid in high school. I was skinny, nerdy, not particularly good in sports and had no clue about girls. I had my group of friends, and they were awesome, and steeled myself against the kids who didn't like me by saying I didn't care what they thought about me. Defense mechanism? Ummm ... yeah!

A few years ago, my high school class and the two before it held a joint reunion. It was fun, and I reconnected with a lot of people I hadn't seen in years. However, there were a few people who I took pains to avoid when I saw them. Not only did I not want to talk to them, I didn't want to go near them in case they decided they wanted to talk to me.

It happened again a few weeks ago. I was on Facebook and decided to scroll through the "people you may know" list. I did know most of them, and didn't have much desire to be friends with them not because of anything they did to me, but just because we were never that close to start with. But some of them took me back to that reunion, where the thought of dealing with them left me cold.

Is it wrong of me to think that? Of course. I'm not the same person I was more than 20 years ago, so why am I assuming they are? But while I don't let my high school memories consume me -- after all, a lot has happened, much of it good, since then -- I realize I haven't yet learned to let all of it go.