For many years, I was the smallest in the class and the youngest in the gang. Later, and in a period of time that seems particularly short to me, I have found myself becoming the oldest at work, so much so that sometimes I open … mouth and some look at me as if I had shared a newspaper with Larra. Boy, what an exaggeration. With Lou Grant, anyway.
Fran Lebowitz, in an interview with Vanity Fair, said: «If I have always gravitated around older people, it is because I didn’t see the point in being with people who knew less than me. Of course, now this is no longer possible.” It’s not for me either, unless I’m going to work at the pensioner’s home. But there are young people smarter than hunger who continue to teach me something. Or many. And that being young, even if you are stupid, is better than being old: wrinkles are acts of hostility. Here and in Beijing. No, wait, now it’s called Beijing.
In an attempt to console myself, I review the tolls that, as the years go by, I no longer have to pay: that of wandering from bar to bar waiting for something to happen, that of being cold outdoors, that of asking permission and give explanations, that of infinite confusion, that of emotional disasters, that of everything seeming unattainable, that of wanting to escape without knowing where to. Better to dye gray hair and cover my neck, I think, almost convinced. At least I thought so until a few days ago when, at a concert full of effervescent and sweaty people, a couple of wet chickens approached my saint and me. «Wow, how cool to see people as old as you here, guys. “You are an example to follow,” one told us while the other nodded his head. I hope they choke on the Jägermeister.
#Argentina
