I am writing this in a state of shock combined with deep depression. Went to a 60th birthday party last night and came back absolutely stone cold sober, both of us, and not just the one who was driving. We didn't dance. There was no music. No one fell over pissed or made an arse of themselves doing a Mick Jagger impersonation to the deafening strains of Brown Sugar. All of the women kept most of their clothes on all of the time (there's a mercy I suppose). People sat around in polite groups nursing the same drink all night (on medication), avoided the buffet (type 2 diabetes) and only went upstairs to pee (for which I suppose we should have been grateful, given the possible alternative). Sigh.
So what the hell is happening? Doesn't everyone know that WE ARE THE BABY BOOMERS, and as such WE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO GET OLD? I don't think the message is getting through somehow, despite pictures of the lovely Lulu, fantastic Joanna Lumley and gorgeous Bryan Ferry. Instead of chatting about work, kids, holidays and house prices like we used to, the conversation was of retirement, pensions, downsizing and (horror) ailments.
I may hang myself.
I'm not sure now how to handle this situation. Do I carry on in my own sweet way eating, drinking and being a bit too merry? Is it still OK to continue having fun over fifty with clothes, hair, makeup and music? Or am I in denial? Given the choice between slowly shuffling into the sunset in a comfy pair of Footgloves or falling off my platforms at Hobbs' sale, I know which one I'd choose, given the opportunity. But then, of course, I am nowhere near being 60 yet (yeah, right).