Caring less – the cousin of letting go – brings a joyful release. It’s like taking a bra off at the end of the day I don’t want to be dishonest, so I’ll say that in caring what people think about this column, I am perhaps denying myself the peace I’ve found in caring less. Because caring is often important and rewarding: I want to write a good column so that you enjoy reading it. I want to make sure my friends are OK. People who do not care, or lack empathy, are sociopaths. But oh, good God, I care about so many things that should not matter. This week, I will turn 31. For reasons too depressing to go into, I wasn’t always sure I would see 30. Lots of you will be older than I am, perhaps much older. I’ve always had friends in this bracket, so I cannot be fooled by talk of wisdom. I know that, whatever age, we never escape ourselves.
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