Today I had one of those moments. I am pretty sure it was precipitated by learning that Kim Mitchell is 60 years old.
I am not very popular when I complain about aging. (It does not stop me. One dear friend suggested — with a wink — that I might consider talking to someone — i.e., someone paid and not her — about it.)
Most of of friends are about my age or older and they don’t seem to share the same anxiety about the march of time. And they probably think I am bit nuts. And younger people just think (but don’t say): Yeah, you’re old all right, deal with it. My parents did. Both are right.
And it was thinking about how right they both indeed are that snapped me out of my momentary funk.
I am very happy with my life. Very, very happy, indeed. And I’m a lot more interesting than I was 20 years ago. Smarter, too and a lot more fun. I would not go as far as wise, but I do feel pretty together. And I own lots of great footwear. Really, what more do I need?
Yeah, sometimes I think what the heck happened? But I am pretty sure we all do. And that’s probably good. It keeps me eating my vegetables and walking for an hour every day. It keeps me reading and learning new things. It keeps me on top of my chin hairs, too.
I feel the same as I ever did. Same Christine. (And I like her as much as I ever did.) That’s the secret, right? We all — no matter how old we get — feel like ourselves. We don’t change, the music just gets worse.
Plus, Kim Mitchell was rocking the stage at 60 and he looked pretty damn good. Damn good. Sounded good, too.
So I’m gonna rock middle-age — even if I can’t believe I’ve arrived at the first intermission. The rest of the play is gonna be amazing.