Hubby Steve and I went to see the Black Crowes last week—Steve and the band have been tight since the late 80s and I came into the fold a few years later. We all stood around backstage, looking at each other, and somebody said, “How in the hell did this happen?” We’re all forty. Or older. I don’t feel forty. I don’t even think I feel thirty. People my age don’t drive around in their car listening to Superchunk, singing at the top of their lungs. But wait…those guys are getting old too (notice I used the word getting…I don’t want to bruise any feelings, especially not Jim’s…and have you heard the new record? It’s awesome!). I guess music keeps us young, because my mom friends and I were shocked when we figured out how old Rick Springfield is. Sorry, Rick—you still look great, babe.
I’ve been trying to decide when a person becomes old. We don’t want to describe ourselves as being old, although sometimes it’s fun, just to have someone say, “Oh, no. You’re not old.” Forty was the new thirty a few years ago. Now fifty is the new thirty. How about if we just come up with a new system? Like, you’re old when you can’t wear a tube top anymore. Oh, wait, that ship sailed a while ago.