Hope I Die Before I Get Old
You don't have to think about how to be young. You do have to think about how to be old.
Getting older is weird.
Sometimes it’s a bit scary. It’s relaxing in other ways and interesting in increments, but I’m also here to tell you it’s just plain weird.
For those who don’t know, the title of this post is from a Who song called “My Generation,” released in the mid-1960s, an anthem to youth who never wanted to deal with the survivor’s trauma that came with being old, which in those days was anything past 30 years.
America is a youth-worshipping society. It makes sense. The country (in its current form as the United States) is only 247 years old. That’s young.
England is more than 1,000 years old. France too. The USA is a teenager by those standards (and often acts like one.) Ethiopia is 5 million years old, one of the reasons we say “Mama Africa” when we talk about the vast, feral, fertile continent where scientists say human life began.
I always thought I would grow older in Europe, where mature women are more often not considered past their prime or invisible, undesirable.
But no, I’m marking my years in the rowdy teen of world politics, the capital of capitalism, the red-white-and-by-God-blue USA. It almost makes sense, since I still feel like a teenager most days (when I don’t look in the mirror) and an adult when my niece, nephew, or other young beloveds come to me for advice or solace.
I’m an elder now in the Native American society I often frequent, the “Cool Auntie,” the one with stories of Life Before The Internet, road trips with kids in a lap instead of car seats, phones attached to the wall (and the freedom that provided, since our parents couldn’t reach us when we left the house and partied like rabid raccoons) and ribald tales of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll - all of which I proudly participated in.
I resisted the march of time as long as I could. I was still carded in bars in my 40s, providing a stubborn pride to the eternal, internal, teenager in my soul. I thought, hoped, fervently wished, I would stay young forever.
But I can’t. We just can’t.
That’s not the way it works.
Getting older is a privilege, one not afforded to everyone, but it’s an honour that comes with both calmness and confusion.
Who is this “Ma’am” everyone is talking to? Why the hate directed at Baby Boomers (what do they mean we should vacate the stage? Are you freaking kidding?!). I was born at the ass-end of the Baby Boom, a pocket some folks call Generation Jones, but I’m a Boom Baby through and through.
I saw Queen in concert twice, including once when Freddie Mercury wore the famous harlequin jumpsuit. Back in the day, outside a venue in New Orleans, Brian May came out and talked to me (I was there at noon) then invited me to view their soundcheck. He didn’t know 16-year-old me, but he’s a kind man, and the group really cared about their fans.
I saw Lynyrd Skynyrd before the plane crash, long before they became their own cover band, when the booze and blues Southern outfit were young hellraisers extraordinaire, and so was their audience.
I met The Knack during their short hot heyday, Eddie Money when his meat and potatoes rock was alcohol-fueled, Van Halen when they ruled the rock world, and viewed a rising Tom Petty when his Heartbreakers opened for the Kinks.
I met Carlos Santana when I was a teen, sat backstage chatting with Dr. Hook, and participated in punk rock with such enthusiasm I never wanted my hair to be a natural colour again. The Clash would give me eternal life, I thought in those days, and I’m still not sure that’s wrong.
I saw The Monkees dozens of times, Journey before they became stadium rock, Prince when I and my pal were one of three white folks in the audience, and Cheap Trick so often that Rick Nielson would shower us with custom guitar picks when we showed up inside a venue long before the audience because we figured out how to do that. We’d scamper to pick up the bounty that fell around us and for years afterward would gift our friends with the band’s custom-imprinted picks.
I saw Willie Nelson more times than I could count because I was in a liaison with his stage manager.
It got to the point where I could get backstage at a concert just by showing up because I knew so many people.
You know a lot of people when you are young.
When you get older, meeting people can become more difficult, and that’s often just when you need them the most — after your parents or sibling/s have passed or after becoming a widow or widower. After kids have grown or you’ve moved out of a home that was too much work for one person.
After you realize that your scars may have slowed you down for a while or for good.
From youth, all of that comes later, if you are given a Later.
As a teenager I met Michael Jackson, one of the most polite celebrities I’d ever come across, and once in the middle of a Moody Blues concert, the spot (spotlight) operator shone a hot beam on me and my friend, following our steps and lighting our path as we made our way from the back of the audience to backstage. We were higher than God’s hairline and thought that was extremely funny. Don’t know what the fans in the coliseum thought.
Because I was a teenage girl, a hot commodity in a hot community, no one ever said no. A fine time to be alive, young, and obsessed with popular music.
I’m no longer a teenage girl (except in heart and mind) so how do I do this Older Woman thing?
I don’t know.
I’m very active on social media, but I don’t know all the apps and chats, nor do I use them all. Every time I hear new slang I try to familiarize myself but then it’s gone and replaced with something else.
I’ve been known to use “groovy” (which was before my time) and “I’m down” (after my time) to express not that I’m sad, but that I’m on board with whatever is going on. The other day I said “I’m gonna bounce” to announce to younger friends that I was leaving and I felt utterly ridiculous, although they didn’t bat an eye.
I’ve been to all of 3 rap concerts. I have one (count ‘em, one) Taylor Swift album.
I dye the grey that is showing up in my hair. I wear jeans bought before some of my friends were born. I strive not to dress “too young,” because that’s ridiculous but I don’t want to be matronly either. Where’s that fine line?
I often listen to music now called “oldies” and holy crap, when did that happen.
I occasionally tell stories about bands, people, and events and get a quizzical look from the younger generation, who have no idea who I’m talking about.
But what I am so grateful for is that the youngers will hang out with me, a stark difference from my generation who wanted nothing to do with older folks unless they’d buy us beer, had a guitar strapped on, or voiced a radical view left over from the 1960s.
Some of my teenage pals call me “Rock ‘n’ Roll Auntie” which I adore but I wonder sometimes if I’m heading into “Rock ‘n’ Roll Granny” territory.
If I am, that’s fine with me.
I think.
When you’re new to the world, you don’t have to think about how to be young.
But when you’ve been here a good while you do have to think about how to be old.
I’m not sure I know how to be old. Do you?
I'm 77 now, born the first year of the boomer lot, with lots of ol physical issues that limit my mobility. One of my loves in life is dancing. I can no longer dance in the usual way but sitting and moving to the music is still an option. Once in a while, I do a rumba with my walker. I've also been to many wonderful concerts over many years, but I've never gotten to enjoy your exciting experiences with them, though.
I have lots of young friends. I've gotten to be close with a 21 year old guy who is one of the life guards at the pool where I go swim. We talk music constantly. I turned him into a huge Jackson Browne fan as well as Harry Chapin and more. He buying all kinds of his Jackson Browne's albums.. I loan him so many unusual pieces of music to check out. Because he got his dad's record player, I brought him my beautiful, minty LP set of "The Musicial, Time." It's a Dave Clark production with Freddy Mercury and Sir Lawrence Olivier plus a huge list of famous artists. It's a rock opera with an unusual theme.
So, completely opposite, (my friend loves Reggae like I do) I brought him the old '70 something movie called "The Harder They Come" with Jimmy Cliff which is really terrible but the CD is great! I brought him that, too. He's turned me on to Jack Johnson, who I really like. There is no problem with our age difference, we really enjoy music together. He plays lots of the music I like while I'm at the pool.
Two other young, 18 to 20 yo lifeguards are similar in conversations. One talks surfing with me because I used to surf (badly) when I was a teen. The other one just fun topics in general.
I've gotten really close with the director of he pool. She's my son's age, around forty. We also have a music connection starting with Brandi Carlile.
So, let's not forget the good old boomers I'm friends with. One has an extra mobility scooter and we go all over Santa Barbara with our dogs in tow. It quite a sight and we have fun with everyone we meet along the way. Growing old sucks and " isn't for sissies" as they say. But, it beats the alternative unless you are in so much pain you can't function even with help snd you don't have your mental facilities.
I'm also a teenager at heart, and hope you always stay that way. Stay interested in life. I know you will. Keep learning new things and know that who you are, is who you are inside, not what you see in the mirror. You'll be a great crone! 😃♥️ Filled with wisdom and joy!
There are still so many adventures to be had! Chris made me an instant grandmother in my mid-50s, and I am loving that!! (2 more on the way, btw... life finds a way!) I’ve driven from Maine to CA, CA to Maine and then back again in the last 3 years, a different route each time. GLORIOUS!
We’ll do our best to go out the way we’ve lived: taking chances, enjoying what we can and abiding while the worst visits, because nothing stays the same.
Please do me a favor? Remind me of all this if things get harder again (because of course they will) later.