What Would the 80-Year-Old Version of Me Say?
And why I’m only concerned with her judgment. No one else’s.
I have a friend, who when I’m mulling over a decision, asks me the same question, “What would 80-year-old Vanessa tell you to do?” It is more than mildly annoying. It also gets me every damn time.
The general idea is to picture yourself as the 80-year-old version of you. The one who tells stories from a rocking chair, on a porch somewhere, to whoever the hell will stand still long enough to hear about “that one time…”
This question is the challenge to determine what “that one time” will be. It’s the crossroads of grab-life-by-the-balls or not.
I had my weekend all planned out. Earlier in the week, I had created a list of everything that I needed to focus on: returning a drill to Home Depot, getting my dog’s nails trimmed, decluttering my entire house. I even took Friday off to get things done.
Yes, you read that correctly. I took a vacation day to clean out my hall closet. Don’t look at me like that. I can feel that look.
After getting a good amount done on Friday, I made a decision that made absolutely no sense at all. None whatsoever.
I got in my car and drove five hours to California to visit this same friend, driven by not wanting to disappoint the 80-year-old version of me. She has a presence, that one.
My friend and I had been chatting about our plans for the weekend and he very cavalierly mentioned for me to get in the car and come out there. Like it was nothing. Just go. I could just throw crap in my car and drive off. Sure. Right. I don’t think so.
Hold on. Wait. 80-year-old me had the floor. “It’s not crazy. It’s living.”
I mulled it over for about five minutes while I took a shower I needed regardless of how my day was going to end.
