Is it bad form for someone of my generation to say f*** the Beatles? I mean, what the hell were they thinking when they wrote that song? That none of us would ever be 64 and remember the day we so laughingly joked and shuddered at the thought of being … old?
For the record, Paul and Ringo, 64 is clearly middle age. Or like so many other things we 64ians like to talk about, it’s “an extension.” Childhood ends abruptly when you sprout weird ideas and weirder hair, old age ends in death, but no-one to my knowledge has defined the day we skip happily from middle age into cranksville. No-one. And that includes the Fab Four, one of whom clearly wants us to believe his hair is still naturally brown.
I know I am not that skinny girl with long hair and set ideas, but a quick scan of my body in a dim light (preferably sans optical enhancement), shows every 64-year-old extension I have is hard-won. Most of them came with the kids (now there’s a surprise) and the spreading arse is from sitting and writing instead of running marathons. I will concede there are times when I get annoyed about yet another of my favourite food groups being given a hard time, but I know the engine that runs the show is purring like a Rolls Royce. Did I not just recently look up my phone to see how much NZ Superannuation is? Yes I did! I could have added it up in fortnightly blocks because adding up was something us 64ians were taught to do at school; but no, when my mother needed to fill out her rates rebate I whipped out the Samsung and came up with the answer while she was still looking for a pen. I will admit I did it just a little bit to show off, but what kid doesn’t want to impress their 87-year-old mother? But there are other skills I have acquired in my extension period. For example, I can now make the camera on said phone face both ways – when I want it too, and I can’t remember the last time I wrote out a cheque.
What we need to focus on, is of course, the 64 million dollar question – where to from here? I close my eyes and I can see me, my darling husband and all our extensions, cranking up the iPod nano, (ok Spotify), slipping on the headphones (one each if we’re feeling romantic) and belting out a bit of proper rock because the shit those kids call music nowadays is never going to last the test of time. Ever.
Robyn Anderson 