Makes no difference to me. When was the last time you heard that? It was a familiar saying, familiar in two senses of the word, when I was growing up. Of course it wasn’t true when uttered by siblings or parents. They were merely expressing ambivalence, the antidote for which was someone else making a decision, and then opinions were offered on how things could have been better.
They were right, of course, they could have been better.
Opinions, you know the saying, are like assholes; everyone has one. Unlike assholes, they don’t need to be expressed.
Two nights ago, upon Bill’s encouragement—he had already seen it once—I went with him to see Woody Allen’s new movie. I’ve never been a Woody-phile, but there was Hannah and Her Sisters. Ergo, a chance…it was set in Paris, after all.
Afterward, I kept my opinion to myself. Not one word all the rest of the evening, except to say, Paris sure looked pretty.
Such discretion was not a requisite, not ever a preference, at breakfast with other friends the next morning. “Thin as lint,” I blurted out even before the coffee arrived.
There it is, my opinion. Some might think I’m an asshole, but it makes no difference to me.