Does it bother anyone else that Indiana Jones is turning sixty-seven years old this July?
The sexy leather jacket wearing whip-toting adventurer I lusted over as a young woman is about to be 70 years old. This means that Han Solo is also nearing 70. The smart-ass Star Wars hottie is slightly more than a decade away from the PC term “octogenarian”.
Granted, he is a supremely good example of nigh-seventy. He obviously takes good care of himself. However, he can’t turn back the clock, and neither can I. Time is marching on, and it is marching right across my reality!!!
This week I feel old. My hero’s are old, my peers are adults, my children are getting tall and stubborn, and the hot new actors are young enough to make me a bad person for thinking they are hot. My face is starting to keep it’s expressions, long after I am finished expressing.
I am no longer cool!! There are subcultures forming that I have no understanding of! I was in the damn Goth scene! I got it! I had the clothes, the music, the cool hangouts and the seriously Goth friends. I got the invitations to the subversive parties, I wore the make-up, the corsets, the insane seven inch heel thigh high fuck me boots!! I was part of the underground scene.
Now? I am a housewife wondering what the hell “Emo” is!!! It’s a thing I don’t get! My daughter will soon tell me I don’t understand, and she will be RIGHT!!!
There are things in life that I will accept with grace.
This whole aging thing ain’t one of ’em. Fuck aging, where’s my damn NIN hoodie?