It is the next morning and we have to check out. We book in an overnight for my upcoming birthday. We are going to see Motown.
Last year, for my husband’s birthday, we saw Neil Sedaka perform at the Old Westbury Music Fair. Neil Sedaka looked pretty agile for a man his age, as he shuffled on stage for a full seven minutes before he was too winded to go on. He sang “Calendar Girl” and we went wild. He sang “Oh, Carole,” and we went wild. He sang “I Miss the Hungry Years” and we sighed.
After intermission, he started to sing his new songs from his new album. They were extremely poignant songs about aging. We couldn’t exit the place fast enough. And as we dashed out, I looked over my shoulder. I did not see anyone standing on line to purchase his new cd.
But I, too, am obsessed with aging. It is all I think about. It was only a split second ago that I had worked two jobs, three if you count the summer, gutted my house, ripped out every blade of grass from my front lawn with my own bare hands, planted perennials and laid slate stepping stones after watching an episode of Curb Appeal on HGTV. I am in a state of shock. I do not understand how and when this happened to me. I cannot engage anyone to talk about it. So I am blogging about it. And this way you can pretend you don’t peek.