Member-only story
I’m a woman “of a certain age.” I got no beef with that. I know I’m 51. I’m well aware that I’m likely close to halfway through my journey on this planet. Well, except for my diabolical plan to live to 136.
Why 136? I like even numbers. Oh, and I want to shake my cane at young people and yell at them to pull up their damn pants.
But aside from that, I feel young. I feel like I’m still 16. So when the icons of my youth pass away, a piece of me dies.
Over the past couple of decades, my youth, our youth has been systematically erased in a strange way. It’s something I’m not ready to concede. We lost Michael Landon. We lost David Bowie, George Michael, John Ritter, and Whitney Houston. Come on! Stop it!
I’m not old. I’m not done.
But now, you come and took Sandy! Seriously? 73 ain’t old. Check your books, it’s not. It’s not even close to old. I have a friend at the dog part that’s almost 86. She plays golf 5 days a week, has her own home and is sharp as a tack. 73 is too young.
I remember Grease. It came out in 1978, but I saw it a year later for a dollar at our military base’s theatre. I loved it. It became my favourite…
