I remember several years ago. Not well, but.. Anyway, it was the early nineties and I was fresh from a stint as a undiscovered undercover rocker/goth chick. I’d just gotten married and started my still continuing job as a corporate stooge and I remember relentlessly mocking the older ladies (you know 30s) for their Michael Bolton obsession. I mean, but really. Ugh.
And. So. Now it’s a completely new millennium and I’m 45. (Heavy sigh, Shoulder shrug.)
I get it. I can see the attraction. With age comes maturity. (for some) What’s sexier than a well-dressed guy with excellent personal grooming, a job and a love song? Isn’t Michael Buble just adorable?
I’m now able to ponder the attributes of even the cheesiest. Reconsidering my immediate aversion to all things Tom Jones. My friend Robin thinks he’s the berries. (More like aged cheddar) Just think about it, though. He is my parent’s age and has fared way better than some of MY contemporaries. Looks like he still has all his hair and his teeth. (they’re his. he paid for them)
Basically, the unconscious intent of this ramble was to justify why I should not now be mocked, but why it is still okay for me to ridicule my daughter’s One Direction fixation. (internal dance mix. Cue the jam, “It’s My Prerogative.”)
Did you know that Daniel Craig is 45? Yes. Hmm. That’s what we call, “my demographic” (sang to the Who’s “My Generation”)
I think I had started this blog to publish an in depth composition of unparalleled insight and pithy commentary, but I got sidetracked by some YouTube videos and a growling stomach. I got to use some of my two dollar words and now I’m off to make paninis in my Foreman grill, it’s all good.