"One of the best things about being an ordained minister," a friend of mine who is an ordained minister told me recently, "is that they give you a card you can put on your dashboard that means you can basically park anywhere."

"I mean," he quickly added, "that's not a reason to get ordained, of course. But it's not not a reason, you know?"

I nodded. I knew what he meant. And not just because parking in New York City is a complicated operation. When you reach a certain age, I've discovered, you're on the lookout for little perks and special treats. In later middle age, you're not as ambitious as you once were.

Or maybe I should speak only for myself: Once I reached 50, I wasn't as ambitious as I once was. Here's an embarrassingly trivial example: As a younger man, I couldn't imagine anything better than flying in a private plane. But as much as I've relished the times when I've been lucky enough to fly that way, I'm still immensely satisfied merely being a Clear TSA-Pre passenger in Boarding Group Two, with a window seat in Economy Plus. That's what I'm looking for these days -- just a small convenience in an otherwise inconvenient world. I don't need Netjets. I'm happy with Priority Gold.

I'm not sure when, exactly, this happened. I suppose it was the gradual realization that I was never going to earn enough to be a private plane kind of person, coupled with the truth that as long as I don't have to take off my belt and shoes and I'm in an exit row, honestly, it's fine.

"It's fine," in fact, is a recurring mantra for me.

I have a college classmate who comes from an old French family that has owned a magnificent stone castle for three centuries. Unfortunately, the family ran out of money about a century ago, so the place has been slowly falling down since 1950. Most of the paintings have been sold, along with the antique furniture. The only heat comes from an enormous fireplace in the main hall, and the water, when it runs, is roughly the color and smell of a gym sock.

On the other hand, there's an enormous wine cellar that's still pretty well stocked, and so part of the fun of visiting the place is huddling in the stone hall, fire blazing, and drinking wine that has been stored since before the Battle of the Somme. Eventually, the family will sell that, too, but in the meantime, it's a lovely, and very economical, way to spend four or five drunken afternoons in the middle of the French countryside, if you don't mind shivering to sleep on an ancient and lumpy horsehair mattress. And after the fifth bottle, I'm here to tell you, it's fine.

In other words, there are large luxuries -- private planes, fancy hotels, and chauffeurs -- and there are small pleasures, and I've discovered that the key to happiness is learning to cherish the latter and forget about the former. You can spend about $10,000 on a spectacular sac à depeches from the French luxury brand Hermès, but I assure you that a canvas Boat and Tote bag from L.L. Bean, which will set you back about $75, is totally fine.

Which, I know, sounds a lot like giving up. There's a famous meme of a cartoon dog sitting amid a burning house, smiling weakly and saying, "It's fine." We're supposed to fight the "it's fine, really" impulse and strive continuously for more, better, richer. But the problem is most of us live in a world of paddlefish caviar and cashmere from H&M (both of which, by the way, are fine!), and we sometimes -- well, OK, maybe it's just me -- forget about the specific joy of drinking delicious wine in a cold, damp room, or breezing through the small metal detector at the airport instead of the one that takes magnetic pictures of your naked body.

The number of unattainable (for me, anyway) luxuries continues to grow as more people get rich and plunk down for tomahawk steaks and vicuña overcoats. But my 2025 resolution is to ignore all of that and cultivate an It's Fine perspective on every aspect of my life. I know I'll be a lot happier.

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