By some strange twist of fate (namely, my search for activities that enrich and create fun, not just work), I went dancing on a local places early 80s night. I was absolutely exhausted but managed to convince a Zip Code Friend to accompany me so it had to happen. (I couldn’t ask friends who lived farther as I planned to dance for 45 minutes then leave.) The crowd was mostly my age — quite a number of white-haired gentlemen, some young trans couples, one black guy, two Asian people (I’m in that head count). But also, good for the people my age for staying up later than 9 pm!
I was so happy I went. I stayed longer than I thought. I danced like crud. It’s gone. I used to be able to move well on a dance floor but it’s just like my Spanish, my piano and my ability to shop a clearance rack at Loehmann’s — these are skills I have not practiced in ages and although I always thoughts I could pick up where I left off, that’s no longer true. I’m aging, baby! I swayed like a zombie, in my 9-t0-5 exhaustion and swollen knees state.
Still, it was cool. Funny to listen to music that I’ve been listening to for 30, 40 years, and see that I’m still here, still alive. I’m so different than that high school person who started with The Cure, etc., but I still remember her too.