Well, if other Canters are going to start feeling old, then I might as well join in. Especially since I've discovered I'm officially 'approaching middle age.' Yes, hard to imagine, I know, but there it is.
I was reading a piece a few days ago re-printed from a survey taken by a UK periodical. Apparently people 'approaching middle age' are happier now than ever. They are more content with their life, their partner and the choices they have made than ever before. All well and good, until I read what they defined as this test group. People over the age of 35. Over 35. Well, there must be some sort of mistake, I think to myself. As I read on, though, the evidence becomes even more damning. One of the surest signs, they claim, of 'approaching middle age,' is a CD collection frozen in time exept for occasional purchases of 'greatest hits' albums. Which pretty much sums up my collection perfectly.
So, it's true then. I'm facing middle age. Perhaps that's why movies seem so much stupider than they used to be, and popular music so much less, well, musical. I'm just on the long slope down to wearing plaid shirts, slacks and sock suspenders. (By the way, I should point out that I fully intend to be a crotchety, eccentric old man, prone to telling people exactly what I think of them and forgetting to put my pants on when I go to the mail-box. You have been warned.) I guess statistically I _am_ about halfway through, at 36 years old.
But I'm not going to complain. After all, I can think of a bunch of people who started out at around the same time as me and didn't make it to 36. Actually, the people I really feel sorry for are those in their twenties now. I mean, just think about it. My CD collection is frozen in time with the likes of Yes, Peter Gabriel, Vangelis, The Police and Pink Floyd. The poor buggers who are still young today are going to be locked into a musical time capsule with Britney Spears and any one of a dozen plastic, vacuum-molded boy-bands. Or those Limp Nesquick people, whatever they're called. Angry bloke who does a lot of shouting, only you can never hear what he's saying, and that's no tune anyway, you can't hum it or sing along, and why don't his pants fit properly and what's that thing sticking out his nose, does he know it's there, is it supposed to help him stop snoring or something and what's he saying and who's that and where's my hot milk anyway, and wait, these aren't my pants...