How often have I responded with a well-practiced shameful shrug because of something I said, or something I didn’t say, or because I showed up wearing this instead of that, or because I arrived on Thursday for a lunch on Friday.

Just about the time I became my grandmother, Old Age started offering wonderful gifts of sage advice in whispered bits. In a moment of silence I felt her telling me: “You can’t think yourself a fool if you are the one who laughs first.”

And in the pause of urgencies, and the opportunity created by doubt, I felt the wisdom of her message.

I remember sitting on the end of the examining room table swinging my legs back and forth while waiting for the doctor. That’s when I finally noticed with a start, that I was wearing two different boots. One was about three inches higher on my leg than the other and a much darker brown.

I was so taken aback at being such a fool, but my immediate reaction was to giggle, a genuine, earnest giggle that inadvertently transformed the moment from a scoop of vanilla into a Neapolitan delight. I was still giggling when the doctor came in. I pointed to my boots and we laughed together.

I finally understood. While being foolish can be frustrating, it is also liberating. It’s the April Fool’s joke we play on ourselves that breaks through the confines of perfect and reminds us what it feels like to be silly.

It reminds us that reality is subjective. We can decide to be a victim, or we can decide on the light hearted approach. The simpler we keep things, the easier everything is to get the joke.

Being a fool contains the quality of innocence. It is often funny and reliably silly. But it is a sacred permission slip, not to be abused or faked or used as a contrivance for grander intentions. It gives us a chance to be gracious about being wrong and fallible, and it certainly provides a wonderful excuse to laugh at ourselves.

One of the more shriek-and-shout bits of foolishness was reported to me by a friend who recalled watching a man at an airport collecting his family’s traveling paraphernalia from the conveyor belt. When his baby’s car seat came by, he plunked his baby in it and went on grabbing the family’s other items. For a few seconds the baby seemed to enjoy the slow, easy ride as her car seat continued being carried along on the conveyor belt to a chorus of shouts.

I don’t know if all the practical, liberating wisdom I’ve gained as I’ve aged is a result of becoming wiser, or more likely just the fact that I tire easily and seek quicker solutions. Drama requires more energy than I have. With its layers of emotion and complications, nothing seems to get clarified or finds quick resolution. Keeping things simple makes it all easier to understand.

Add to that the tranquilizing effect being 84 years old has had on my ego. I’ve been fortunate that the years have left my ego in tatters. It’s no longer imperative that I be first, be right, that I distinguish myself in our pursuit of the mythical perfect. I can relax. Nothing about me is perfect. What a relief.

So every week I load my grocery cart bags into my car and, on occasion, notice a sticker, or something unfamiliar on the car seat, something... and it’s then, with a shout of surprise, that I realize, whoops! Wrong gray Honda!

CK Wolfson lives in Oak Bluffs.