Accidents Will Happen

So the other night Dave and I went to see Elvis Costello perform. This was a much awaited and anticipated night out. After all it was Elvis, the man who Dave fully understands I will leave his sorry ass for at the drop of a guitar pick. There’s just that small matter of his wife and the fact that we’ve not met, but these are trivial details. Before the show we were sitting in the bar and having a little people watching with our wine when it dawned on me that the line of people waiting to get tickets or t-shirts was riddled with old people. There were parents and grandparents queuing up to see my heartthrob. Elvis is one of rock ‘n’ roll’s well behaved, and well dressed, rebels. As a teenager it would have been embarrassing as all get out, and therefore unthinkable, if my mother were to sing-along to an Elvis Costello song. Elvis Presley is for adults. Elvis Costello is for the hipster youth. So what, pray tell, were all these old people doing at this concert wearing fedoras and denim? Who let them in?

Yeah, yeah I know. I’m in denial. Fair enough. You can sling that accusation my way. I’m in my 40’s. Elvis is in his late 50’s. Of course his fan base is aging. While I understand that I’m part of the aging population, I’m still not prepared to admit that I’m old or even getting there. Sure, I’ve got the trappings of age. Yeah, I’ll confess to having grey pubic hair. Why not? I’ve confessed to pretty much everything else for your entertainment. But I don’t tend to think of myself as old. I barely think of myself as an adult. People who know me don’t think of me as an adult. But lately I’m being forced to recognize that while I may be living in a bubble of self-denial, the world around me is aging. It’s really annoying when y’all try and burst my bubble.

Of course there’s the obvious measures that people take to preserve their looks. Shooting faces up with pharmaceutical grade epoxy to make sure that you don’t notice that they have wrinkles, or facial expressions, is de rigueur. We’re forgoing underwires in our bras in favour of silicone implants to hold up our sagging breasts. And, it would appear now that the parts of aging that we can no longer ignore and apparently can’t fix with an injection, we’re trying to make fun and hip. Like wetting your pants.

Now sure, I know what you’re thinking. What else can an aging mediocre starlet hope to do when reality TV and Dancing with the Stars have failed to revive their career? And I’m with you there, 100%. Really I am. But, several years ago, I thought that the whole Jamie Lee Curtis-Free-Yourself-From-Constipation-With-Yogurt was an advertising aberration, and boy, was I wrong. We are no longer in the realm of Mr. T endorsing the FlavorWave Oven in an infomercial, or Justin Bieber sharing his acne secrets with his fanbase for Proactiv. Oh. Hell. No. We’ve well and truly slipped over the hill and are rolling like a boulder straight into the depths of despair. All hope is now lost. We’ve just heard the death rattle of the advertising subtlety of the Darren Stevens and Don Drapers of the past. We’re in the afterlife now, baby, and apparently, it’s getting popular to decry your right to wet your pants in public.

I can’t wait to see what’s next. Or maybe I can.