Let the freak flags fly:

The amen of aging

A good friend defined David’s and my next phase of life this way: “I see you two increasingly letting your freak flags fly.” Then we went to our 20-year college reunion and felt this spirit fully.

Twenty years is enough time to forget but not enough time to keep memories from rushing back. Classmates first seemed like they hadn’t changed at all. We are all twice as old, but my brain recognized faces as easily as if I had seen them in the dining hall last week. They weren’t the same, though. Friend groups at our college formed early and solidified like concrete, but people were more open and accessible 20 years out. David talked so enthusiastically with a classmate that I assumed I’d forgotten them being friends. It turns out they hadn’t even known each other; they were taking the good-willed energy in the room and running with it. Even the small talk was peppered with liveliness.

Not only were conversations lively, but they were specific. Our college was pretty academic and nerdy, but never have I experienced classmates embracing idiosyncrasies and niche interests this way. From relationships forged over D&D to fishing over lunchbreaks at the criminal defense office, classmates shared about what makes them feel most alive. They talked about how to plot fantasy novels and late career pivots. It’s not that they were reporting in on discovering their true selves; they were still entirely recognizable. But they were letting out more of who they always were. The freak flags weren’t hidden away, but waving in the SoCal sun.

As for me, I invited the reunion listserv to a Spotify playlist for a post-dinner throwback dance party. I called on friends to lob interesting questions into the night. I was unapologetic in pursuit of fun and meaning. My younger self thought my love of such things needed to be stashed away, known only to trusted friends, never acknowledged in the light of day.

That kind of compartmentalization is exhausting, turns out. “Weirdness isn’t ‘a flaw, but a thread to follow’ back to ‘your truest self,’” as a recent New York Times article put it. Not “to” our truest selves, but “back to.” Weirdness isn’t something we arrive at over time. Weird is who we always were before we got covered in a film of who we were supposed to be.

The article encourages getting weirder with age, until we are old and arrive at “full-on weird.” I’ve long been enamored with the idea of the old lady who tells it like it is and blasts dance music at 5 pm in the senior living community. But why wait?

We are all meant to be different in our details. Would life be interesting if we weren’t? Aging is an opportunity to feel more settled in this idea.

I don’t want to wait until I’m 80 to be a badger for deep conversation and dance parties, digging nighttime tunnels for anyone to see.