Growing old with the sounds of silence

Sometimes, I wonder exactly how appalled the 20-year-old me would be by the current, 52-year-old model.

I like to think that he wouldn’t too distraught, at least not to the point where he would question the wisdom of even being 52. Yet I can guarantee he would be flabbergasted by one development: the fact that I can drive across entire states and not listen to a single song.

When I was 20, I couldn’t even drive to the 7-Eleven without a complete play list. Once my car stereo went on the fritz for two days and I went and bought a new car.

This change came crashing home to me earlier this year when my wife, Carol, and I went on a 10-day road trip. When we got home, we realized that we had not cracked open one CD. We listened to some radio. We tried a book on tape. Yet mostly we just talked and watched America glide past.

The old me would have been disgusted. Back in those days, every moment of life had to be accompanied by the proper soundtrack. I had favorite road music, favorite sitting-on-the-porch music, favorite Sunday morning-making-breakfast music.

Sometimes I still crank up the stereo for these moments. But more and more often, silence suits me just as well.

This saddens me. I worry that I have become old, jaded and boring.

Why this change?

Maybe raising kids has something to do with it. I first gained a new respect for peace and quiet during those years when a toddler was constantly screeching and a baby was incessantly squalling. When we finally got them down for the night, the last thing we wanted was the stereo cranked up to 11. (Then they became teenagers, and the stereo was always cranked to 11.)

Also, I slowly became disillusioned with the life-changing power of pop music. I used to think that Bob Dylan was revealing the secrets of life in “Like a Rolling Stone.” Somewhere in my 30s, I finally realized that he was actually just getting even with an old girlfriend.

Then, I found that having a soundtrack constantly blaring in my ears was not only unnecessary for enlightenment, but counterproductive. I once would have been bored sick if forced to jog without a Walkman. But I gradually realized that a half-hour of interrupted thinking wasn’t such a bad thing. I didn’t need Ric Ocasek and the Cars bellowing in my ears while I was trying to do it.

To sum up: Yeah, I’ve gotten old and boring.

Of course, the 20-year-old me might find some solace in the fact that I have not completely forsaken music, not by any means. I still like to slip on that just-right CD while I’m cooking dinner, although it is just as likely to be Grieg as Coldplay. When I hear a great new song on the radio, like something by Ryan Adams, I still tend to obsess over it, although I am now less likely to decode the lyrics and more likely to look up the chords and learn how to play it. And “Like a Rolling Stone,” can still make me smile, from sheer creativity of vituperation.

Still, I feel as if I have lost something important. I find it symbolic of aging in general – life gets blander, enthusiasms fade and the things that once made us happy become unreliable.

OK, now I’m just depressing myself. But at least I don’t require some old Joni Mitchell or new Bright Eyes to help me wallow in my mournfulness. The old me would have found that mandatory.