I believe I vaguely imagined that when I got old my kids would be interested in my past and pile me with questions. Alas, that was a fantasy gleaned from fairy tales, books and movies. In real life, they are not so curious, and my friends verify this to be the case with them as well. The kids are busy with their own lives, and consider us out of date and irrelevant. They happily envision us going to the grave with our secrets. How could it possibly affect them?
Not only that, but I seem to have two kinds of friends: the kind who want to know about me and what's going on in my life and the kind who want me to know what's going on with them, but have no curiousity about me. I'm weeding out the latter kind, by attrition, so that at least someone will listen to me occasionally. The one way street thing has gotten mighty old.
Paring down. At my age everything comes down to simplifying and weeding out the unsatisfying relationships. Now with my kids, my interest in them is so intense that I can laugh off their lack of interest in me. They are the unconditional love people. I love them unconditionally and they love their kids unconditionally.
But I'd have no one who gives a rip (as my best friend would say) if it weren't for my husband and close friends. From them I hear the advice and guidance I need. From them I learn my lot is universal and can laugh at our silly expectations. I bounce off the ideas and they bear witness to my struggles and triumphs. So the narcissistic friends may disappear, and I wish them well, but I don't really have the time these days. And if I want obliviousness, there are always my kids.
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