As someone who grew up spending time in more classical enjoyments of ideals expressed through opera, fine whiskey, and conversations of ideas over the more pedestrian pursuits of my peers, even back then I often wondered what was in store for me when I mellowed, as so many others have done before me. For if I were already where other's eventually followed, what metamorphosis could someone such as I expect?
In the same breath, some of the contemporary things I'd missed I discovered weren't necessarily mundane, nor out of their time, rather I was out of mine; I'm not better than my peers, I'm simply marching adjacent them as they meander down theirs.
Marching is, with the guidance of cadence, knowing exactly where your next step is going to land, the distance of the step, and perhaps more importantly, the timing of those steps for a repeatable metric. You minimize all detractors by keeping your mouth shut and your eyes and head forward - hands curled as if at "Attention" swaying in metronomic meter by your side. It is, to me, the pinnacle of self-ambulatory efficiency. When everything surrounding you is used for a singular purpose, with no wasted movements, it can be both empowering and calming.
So what's wrought from the passing of ages and all which follows with it? Appreciation of subtlety. Gentle nuances of breakwater against the unchanging pillars of those who cling to prohibitively inflexible opinions.
I've missed out on a lifetime, but I've inherited enlightenment.
You know who you are. Won't you join me?