When the mood strikes I go with it. It might appear I’m having a seizure or sound as though I’m in pain, but I’m not. What I’m doing is ignoring you and your stuffy social conventions; I’m rockin’ out . Shoot, why should I hold back just because I’m old? There is life after 30, you know — way, way, way after — why is that so shocking?
I hear certain songs and I get happy feet. It happens, lots of times and in lots of places. Sure, I look like a fool, but so what? It isn’t illegal. Unsightly, maybe, but I’m well within my rights to shimmy and shake whenever and wherever I want.
That’s the problem, I think. People start getting older and they think it’s undignified to dance and jam and carry on. Not me. The only time I acknowledge my age is when I look in the mirror, yeeee, so I avoid them as vigorously as a dark alley. Once you admit you’re old, it’s a slippery slope to stiff and timid and house-bound. No, thanks, not interested.
I’ll kick up my heels every chance I have. I’ll crank up the music, — Santana and Kiki Dee, Cheap Trick and Madame Butterfly — and bop on down the road. Until I throw a hip out, fall into traffic, and get creamed by a semi.
But there’ll be a smile on my face when they scrape me off the pavement.
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