I wrote a while ago about a conundrum I had.

I tried listen to david sedaris read his stories. This was not fun. I had to stop.

His voice hurt me.

I liked the idea of liking david sedaris. I did not like the sound of davide sedaris.

I told another writer friend about this.

She suggested that david sedaris was a bit of an acquired taste.

As a lover of both olives and oysters, I’m a fan of acquiring tastes.

Today, I’m happy to report, I have successfully enjoyed david sedaris.

I took a bath and heard him on a podcast. He was charming and funny - so much so that I bought his best on Audible. It’s funny. Well written. Absolutely brilliant. His voice has grown on me.

And?

(he’s pretty damn intimidating)1

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And, I’ve acquired a taste for it.

The aches of aging have been a bit like the voice of david sedaris.

They have hurt me.

This ‘getting old stuff’ is new to me.

Completely alien.

When I was twenty two?

I couldn’t imagine being over forty.

I couldn’t fathom that there would be anything good about being middle aged, over forty or anything.

I'd be done.

Finished.

Way too old.

Now?

Now I hang out with my ninety two year old nanny.

She tells me about time before the war.

And stuff about the well, and the bucket and the shipwreck and the soap and of how plum cheeks turn to prunes.

Me?

I might not be delighting in aging.

But as I approach fifty, I’m beginning to appreciate the glorious wrinkles of a prune and the voice of david sedaris.