Real Women, Real Workouts

When I first moved to Boston back in 1985, I was religious about going to the gym. As soon as I landed my first "real job," as a copywriter for a major cable company, I joined a women's workout club. It was conveniently located halfway between my apartment and my office. Every single weekday morning (and many Saturdays too), I took aerobics. Those were the days when we wore suspender leotards, unitards with crop tops and even leg warmers. And, yes, there was some day-glow going down as well. At 7:15 every morning, we were there, determined to "make it burn."

The locker room presented a daily scene just as dated as the gym. After class, we showered and blow dried our hair (picture Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, pre-haircut). Most of us worked in offices nearby and we all wore those little skirt and jacket suits, some with silky bow ties, and walked out in white athletic shoes, changing into pumps once we got to work.

Yikes!

Fast forward some 30 years. These days, I belong to a local — and co-ed — YMCA. It's a wonderful facility, thanks mainly to donations from two extremely high net worth neighbors. There are about 60 group exercise classes to choose from every week. In a perfect world, I'd go to yoga Monday, Wednesday and Friday; and to Zumba Tuesday, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays.

Of course, it's not a perfect world.

Today, for example, we're having our second snowstorm in as many weeks. They're anticipating another 12 inches on top of the 28 we already have. Even if the Y were open (and I don't know that it is), I'm not driving in this. No how, no way.

Weather isn't the only impediment either. Between kids and clients and cars and conference calls, I often have conflicts that keep me from shaking my booty (or downward dogging, depending on the day). I figure that if I get there 4 times a week I'm doing pretty well.

I've also gotten over how I look while I'm there.

Some of the younger women must spend half their paychecks on workout wear. Lululemon yoga pants start at $88 and can run more than $100. (My teenage daughter once asked for a pair and I reminded her that she doesn't workout.) Myself, I'm perfectly happy in my Target specials, with an old tee shirt on top. And if I'm wearing a sports bra, no one's going to know about it but me. That tee shirt ain't coming off.

I do marvel at the, shall we say "firmer" bodies next to mine (especially in the jam-packed class on Saturday mornings). I wonder if they even know how remarkable they are. Or do they only see their nearly invisible flaws when they look in the mirror, like we all did? Regardless, I refuse to be intimidated. I'm not 23 anymore and let's just say there's more of me to love than there used to be. But, it isn't a competition. I'm there (when I'm actually there) for me.

That's why I love the TV commercial my BFF recently sent me. (She, btw, also remains a dedicated gym goer now that we're in our fifth fabulous decade.) The spot was created by Sports England to help women overcome "worries about being judged for being the wrong size, not fit enough and not skilled enough."

It's called "This Girl Can" and you can watch it here. 

My favorite line? "I jiggle therefore I am." Yep, pretty much the state of things. On this end. These days.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

Miss Match

Today, in addition to closing a new piece of business, participating in a conference call about a client's website, writing and editing (and editing and editing) advertising copy, and working on a big proposal, I did laundry.

I know, I know. You're thinking, 'Wow, what a glamorous life she leads.' Admit it.

One of the great things about running an agency from a home office is that you can multitask. 

So, there I am, brainstorming headlines for an ad campaign and sorting the whites. It had been a few weeks (in this house, the colored hamper fills up much quicker), so I had eighteen or twenty pairs of athletic socks. They are identical except for the Nike logo at the ankle; the familiar swoosh is in three different colors: hot pink, turquoise and black.

As I was grouping them together, it occurred to me that this was a fairly unnecessary task. As I mentioned, the socks are exactly the same, fit the same, feel the same. When I walk or go to the gym, you can't see the logos because I wear long yoga pants. So no one would know if they were mismatched, right?

Wrong. I would know.

That's me, I am a rule follower. Always have been. Always will be. In fact, one of the things that really intrigued me when I started dating my now husband was his disregard for any rules that precluded him from having fun. The first, last and only time I ever played hooky from work was with him. I called in sick on a Friday morning, but was really already en route to Montreal for the weekend. It was exhilarating and liberating and terrifying. I never did it again.

At any rate, I'm sure I would feel the same way if I wore odd socks to Zumba.

One of my favorite instructors, interestingly enough, always has mismatched socks. She laughs about it, shrugging. Her life, with multiple teaching gigs and multiple kids, is just too hectic. 

My daughter, on the other hand, decided a few years ago that mismatched socks would be one of her (many) signature looks. It wasn't that she was busy or lazy, she actually thought it was cool. She's partial to colorful ankle socks, and particularly likes to wear two different holiday themes (say, Jack o' Lanterns on the right, Santas on the left) when the holidays themselves are months away. 

I used to sort her socks, taking the time to match each one to its mate (tracking down all the missing ones too), then rolling the clean pairs into neat little balls. These would be placed gently in her sock drawer, the drawer that she would later turn upside down and inside out, undoing the rolled sock pairs to find the perfect odd couple. I finally gave up.

So, I wonder if anyone has conducted a research study to align different personality types with their approach to matched or mismatched footwear. How do I, my instructor and my daughter differ in our approach to life, the universe and other items of clothing? And, is there a chicken-or-egg element to this? Do my socks match because I'm a rigid rule follower? Or am I a rigid rule follower because my socks match?

Can we ever really change who we are inside?

If I just threw all my socks in a basket and randomly pulled out any two each day, would I be more relaxed?

Hell, no. I'd be stressed out because my socks wouldn't match.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

Un-Happy

Has there ever been a more stubborn earworm? 

You know what an earworm is, I assume. Trust me, even if you don't, you do. According to Urban Dictionary, it's "a song that sticks in your mind, and will not leave no matter how much you try." It can be anything from a TV spot jingle to a Top 40. Typically, the best remedy for an earworm is to replace it with another, different one.

And so on, and so on, and so on.

Right now, moms all over the world are probably struggling to let go of "Let It Go" from Frozen. For me, I keep hearing a different tune: "Happy." 


Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you know what happiness is to you
Because I’m happy
Clap along if you feel like that’s what you wanna do

When it comes to Pharrell Williams' utterly infectious song, I was a few months behind the curve (what else is new these days?). One of the art directors I work with sent a link to the video for "Happy," not because he loved the lyrics or the tune, but because it was an interesting example of social media and viral marketing (something our agency does for clients — although we haven't had the opportunity to do anything quite this cool). 

"Happy" is featured in the animated movie Despicable Me 2, so it was already familiar to my teenage daughter and millions of other underage fans. When singer/songwriter/producer/man-about-town/wearer-of-tall-hats Pharrell Williams released it again for his studio album G I R L, the rest of us caught up.

The music video that accompanied "Happy" was celebrated as "the world's first 24 hour music video." It's really worth a look, even though you're likely to develop your own earworm in the process. The four-minute song is played over and over in an endless loop. There is footage of regular (happy) people dancing, (happy) celebrities, and every hour on the hour, (happy) Pharrell himself. It's 24 hours or 1,440 minutes or 86,400 seconds of ... happy.

And, that's just the official video. If you Google "Happy Parody," you'll get 53.5 million hits. Everything from little kids and pets (lots of happy puppies, apparently), to senior citizens, office coworkers and sports teams. The song is already in commercials and was featured a few weeks ago on the 100th episode of Glee.

My Zumba class added "Happy" to its routines recently as well. It seems like a very simple song, yes? No. There's a little stutter step in the beat which makes the choreography muchos confusing. Of course, feeling even mildly irritated when the song "Happy" comes on makes me feel like a big mean middle-aged mama. 

It makes me feel ... well ... crappy.

Because I feel crappy
Clap along if you have work deadlines looming soon
Because I feel crappy
Clap along if you wish your daughter'd clean her room
Because I feel crappy
Clap along if your jeans are lookin' awfully tight on you
Because I feel crappy
Clap along if you can't get "Happy" out of your head too

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

Sports Bras and Other Outer Underwear

October was Breast Cancer Awareness month and a local gym encouraged members to wear sports bras to class in order to raise awareness. No big, right? I wear a sports bra to the local Y every day. But, this was a little different; they wanted women to wear sports bras without a shirt over them. 

I read about this and had an immediate reaction ...

So-o-o-o not gonna happen!

Let me count the reasons why: back fat, side fat, above the boob fat, below the boob fat, under the armpit fat. Basically, for my sports bras to be supportive enough to hold up my 51-year old girls for 55 minutes of dancing, they have to be pretty snug. They do their job and they look fine under a tee shirt. That's exactly where they'll stay.

No underwear as outerwear for me, if you please. Move along. Nothing to see here.

I wasn't always so ... um ... shy. In the big 80s, I did a lot of aerobics and, consequently, owned a lot of big 80s workout wear. Yes, I had the suspender leotard, the thong-back leotard, the unitard with the leotard briefs over it, the contrasting elastic belt, the leg warmers. (Thanks to my short hair, I never did the headband thing, thank you very much.) I even had a few choice pieces manufactured and marketed by the "Make it burn" queen herself, Jane Fonda. (And a signed poster, her record album, and eventually her video tapes.)

That was then and this is now.

When the new principal of our high school articulated and threatened to enforce a dress code for the annual "Powderpuff Football" game, my teenage daughter and her friends were up in arms. Apparently, the all-girls game is a long tradition around here (news to me; I went to school in New York City with no football of any kind). And, also apparently, it has become standard practice for the juniors to attend in sports bras.

To the students, this seemed a serious threat to their life, liberty and pursuit of happiness. To me, it seemed like common sense. (Hello? This is New England; we have weather.)

Turns out it was much more. And, as often as I tend to side with the world's downtrodden and the freedom fighters, I have to say that I agree wholeheartedly with the principal's decision.

When it comes to public sporting events that require scant clothing, there are three types of girls. Those who are comfortable and confident (and naturally thin), and wear the prescribed clothing (or lack thereof). Those who go on crash diets, jeopardizing their health, in order to do so. And, those who miss out on the event altogether rather than adhere to the custom. It was for these two last groups that the new policy was articulated.

After complaints from parents, the principal met with representatives of the junior class and it was agreed that the encouraged mode would be tank tops rather than sports bras, and that participating would be optional. No matter how many grumbled (and, trust me, many did), this seemed like a fair compromise and a good way to help the students think about inclusion and sensitivity. It may have also, unintentionally, taught some of the girls about getting around rules they don't like.

To finish the story, the annual Powderpuff Game was held yesterday. We lost to the neighboring town (and arch rival). A portion of the stadium stands collapsed and three girls were hurt (one taken to the hospital with an assumed broken leg).

And in all the pictures of junior girls that I've seen online ...

Tank tops are rolled up, exposing their midriffs and creating, in effect, sports bras.

If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.

Can A Twerp Twerk?

In recent months, as the mother of a teenage girl, I have developed a great (okay, an enormous, a colossal, an absolutely frrrrrrkkkin' HUGE) appreciation for perspective. 

Keeping things in perspective.

Here's what I'm talkin' about ...

My daughter stayed up later than we agreed and I was a little ... well ... pissed. Perspective: she was in her room. Not at a bar, not in a parking lot, not at the police station.

My daughter no longer likes the (overpriced) jeans she simply had to have. Perspective: we are lucky enough to be able to afford nice things. And, they will earn some much-needed money for the school's thrift shop.

My daughter's room is a mess. Perspective: while I may think of it as a "disaster area," in truth, we live in a safe house on a safe street in a safe town. As you can surmise, we are all safe. I've seen the results of disasters in New Orleans and New Jersey. Her bedroom doesn't really need assistance from FEMA.

"Wah wah wah," I say. Most of our issues are decidedly "first world problems." Especially when you put them in perspective.

So, with this in mind, I've given some more thought to the media storm around Miss Miley Cyrus. Just as there are far worse things than breaking a bedtime curfew, discarding virtually unworn jeans or trudging through piles of crap on a teenager's floor, there are worse things than a misguided young celebrity twerking on an awards show.

Perspective. She's young and pretty and vaguely talented.

How about so-called normal people twerking?

There are people who (without the benefit of Miley's backup dancers), twerk with their dogs and cats. Does this constitute animal abuse? Quite possibly. But that doesn't make it any less popular. "Twogging" is all over YouTube.

I weep for the future.

Then there are the safety hazards inherent in twerking. A video went viral this week of a young woman doing some sexy twerking moves for her boyfriend. (Whatever happened to love letters?) She was hot. I mean, she was really hot. I mean, she was hot, hot hot. On the off chance you didn't already see it (nearly 10 million people have), watch here.

Jimmy Kimmel has since come forward and confessed that the whole thing was a prank. The girlfriend in the video is actually a stuntwoman (good thing). Kimmel explained his motive as he thanked his gullible audience:

"Thank you for helping us deceive the world and hopefully put an end to twerking forever."

Perhaps the most tasteless and offensive of all, there are videos of ... moms twerking. That's right, moms. Oh, the horror!

I confess, I'm a mom and I have been known to twerk — although I didn't know at the time what it was called. I have one Zumba instructor who is an incredible dancer. But her style is not ... shall we say ... balletic. In fact, she channels her inner stripper every time she teaches. And we, her ragtag class of lumpy middle-aged moms, go along for the ride. We bend our knees, we place our hands on our thighs, we shake our booty, hinging front and back, and wagging our tushes for good measure in between. Yes, as sad as it is (and even sadder to watch, I have no doubt), we twerk.

I'm actually pretty good at it. In fact, I'm surprised that the makers of a particular workout video didn't call me to star in the TV spot. I mean, really. Moody teenager, "boring old mom," I could have done it in my sleep. 

So, my husband, once he learned what twerking was (my daughter and I staged an impromptu tutorial in the kitchen recently), asked the age-old question:

"Can a twerp tewerk?"

The answer is "Yes." Everyone can twerk.

But that doesn't mean everyone should.

Gangnam Style Mom

Remember when we were teenagers and we'd listen to our favorite records? (Remember records?) Invariably, our parents would bang on the door and tell us to turn down the volume on our stereos. (Remember stereos?) The noun used most often for our beloved popular music was "noise." As in, "Turn down that noise!"

At the time, of course, we couldn't imagine being so square, so old, so completely out of it that we would confuse music with noise.

Well, what goes around, comes around. My teen daughter and I may share many things, but our musical tastes are ... um ... different. I hate to confess it, but I just don't get a lot of today's hits.

Thank goodness for Zumba. Really. If it weren't for my Zumba classes, I would be even more in the dark about contemporary tunes than I am. You see, 2-3 times a week (4, if I'm being particularly good), I not only hear the latest songs, I dance to them.

This past week, two of my instructors added "Gangnam Style" by South Korean rapper Psy to our class. It must have been hysterical to watch a room filled with mainly middle-aged women gyrating and galloping in a sorry attempt to imitate PSY's signature move. (I'm sure any flies on the wall were laughing themselves to death.)

"Hey, sexy lady" indeed. 

By anyone's measure, "Gangnam Style" is a worldwide phenomenon. With nearly 530 million (yes, million!) hits on YouTube, the video has been parodied by everyone from the British Prime Minister to the United States Naval Academy. It has provided the catchy soundtrack to countless flash mobs. And, it has been praised as a "force for world peace" by UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon. 

Say what?

This morning, a friend had posted a video meme of the song on Facebook. I absentmindedly hit play as I was packing my daughter's lunch. The song's ubiquitous techno beat opening started up.

"Ohmigod! What are you doing?" my daughter called out in utter disgust.

"I'm just looking at a "Gangnam Style" video," I explained.

"Ohmigod," she repeated. "That's just wrong on so many levels!"

I didn't ask her to elaborate. I mean, how many levels of wrong can one mom take? Instead, I shut it off quickly and decided to wait until she was safely out of the house on her way to high school before attempting to watch it again.

It made me wonder, however, what other teens may be thinking about "Gangman Style." Is it cool? Is it stupid? Or, perhaps more to the point, was it cool and now it's stupid because so many moms are trying to dance to it at Zumba? 

Mystery solved. Here's a take on it directly from the teens themselves: 

"I do! I just like it so much!"

"The way you feel about it is just like awesome."

"This is the randomest video I've ever seen. But, it's the best video."

That last one, my friends, is my favoritest quote.

Back to Zumba, Ouch!

When the going gets tough, the tough go to Zumba. 


Or used to go anyway.


After five weeks off, I finally went back to the gym. Ouch! I am one hurtin' puppy. For the past three years, I've been a pretty consistent worker-outer. Dance classes (Zumba and Nia) 3-4 times a week, yoga 2-3 times. But, you wouldn't know it right now.


When school ended the third week of June, my teen daughter and I headed to Europe. We had a bat mitzvah in London, followed by a few days in Paris. Back in the states, I had to get three weeks worth of work done in a day and a half before we went up to Maine (along with my husband this time) for an annual sailing trip. It would have been lovely to go to the gym in between those back-to-back vacations. 


But, who am I kidding?


Now, you may think I spent my ten days abroad eating les bon bons and sipping le vin blanc and not exercising. Mais non, mon ami! All right, there were plenty of bon bons and wine, but there was also plenty of exercise. Let's see ...


We walked all over London. My daughter and our two young English friends walked from brunch in Mayfair to Oxford Street (and teen fashion mecca Primark), then from Oxford Street to St. Johns Wood. Not sure how many kilometres that was but it took us an hour and a half, and we simply had to stop for ice cream along the way.


I danced my tuchus off at the bat mitzvah. I was familiar with a lot of the music from Zumba and actually used some of the moves from my class out on the dance floor. It was extremely gratifying when an older gentleman who was once a dance instructor at New York's Tavern on the Green told his wife that I "had the moves." I've repeated the story several times. So many times, in fact, that my daughter asked, rolling her eyes, "Yeah, yeah, you're never gonna forget that one, are you Mom?"


We continued the vacation workout in Paris. We had just four days to cover ... well, pretty much everything. We walked to and up Montmartre, and climbed to the dome of Sacre Couer. We walked down 350 steps to the Catacombs. We walked the halls and gardens of Versailles. And, on our last full day in the city of lights, we walked up the Eiffel Tower. You see, three of the four elevators were out of order. So, we could stand on line for the only one in operation, or we could save €5 each and walk. About halfway up, suffering from a bit of acrophobia as well as muscle fatigue, I had the distinct feeling that the outside staircase (kind of like a never-ending industrial strength fire escape in a cage) was shaking. "No, Mo-o-om, it's not," groaned my daughter. She was right. The staircase wasn't shaking ... my legs were!


The view was magnificent, as we expected. I paid too much for a bottle of water and we took about a hundred pictures. Then we had to walk back down. Toward the end of our descent, a display showed the relative heights of various international structures. It also informed us that our climb had been the equivalent of going up and down a 43-story building. (It was probably a good thing that I didn't know that from the start.)


Our final Olympic-level vacation feat was dragging our overloaded luggage a mile — uphill — to the Gare du Nord to catch the train to Charles de Gaulle. Every muscle ached.


Every. Muscle. In. My. Body. Ached.


Then, a bit of jet lag, a bit of advertising copy for clients ... and we went sailing. I didn't do much (hoisted the mainsail along with all the other guests, hiked a little on an island). But, somehow or other, my back went out on our last morning. I  curled up painfully in the rear of the car for the drive home and limped around for another two weeks afterwards. My guess is that all of the Paris exertion caught up to me, exacerbated by the tiny "careful-not-to-hit-your-head" bunk in our schooner cabin. 


Isn't it fun getting older?


Extra Strength Tylenol is a wonderful thing. And finally, after a few pain-free days, I went back to Zumba. I was not very coordinated; I didn't know the new routines; I was drenched in sweat. But, here's the worst of it. In my weeks away, someone stole my spot! For three years (hello, three years, people!), I've stood in the second row, all the way on the left, near the stereo and the stacked step equipment. I liked my spot. I could see the instructor. I could see myself in the mirror. I was close to the action but not in the very first "look-at-me-cause-I'm-all-that" row.


Now, I'm stuck in the back, on the right. Boo.


It just goes to prove what I've always secretly feared, you can never never never stop working out. You must stay committed. You have to feel the burn. You have to drag your sorry booty to the gym or face the consequences.


You snooze, you lose ... your place at Zumba.

I Hope You Dance

When my daughter was born, my mother gave her a beautiful book and CD set of Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance." It's a lovely country song that voices all the aspirations we have for our daughters, starting with "I hope you never lose your sense of wonder," and "Never take one single breath for granted," then repeating several times "When you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance."

Like most little girls, my daughter loved twirling. She'd spread her arms wide, throw her head back and spin and spin and spin. We have countless pictures of her laughing merrily as she watched the world go round. Eventually, she came to understand that dancing and music were related and she choreographed a signature move that we called, 'the elbow dance.' It was a rhythmic upper body back-and-forth motion that could be adapted to pretty much any musical genre from rock to jazz to her favorite songs in Disney cartoons.

When she was four, I enrolled her in a dance class. One afternoon a week, her nanny would drop her off and I'd head home from work early enough to pick her up (and, if I was lucky, catch the last few minutes of the class from the parent viewing area). She stayed in the dance school three years, which meant three separate recitals. We still have the costumes: a sweet pink and green fairy the first year; then bright purple velvet and sequins the second; and silver lamé with pink feathers the third. Between the juvenile stripper attire and all the stage make-up, my daughter and her classmates could have held their own on "Toddlers and Tiaras." All things come to an end, however, and by the time she was seven, my daughter was no longer a girly-girl. She'd abandoned dance (and swimming and gymnastics) for horseback riding. Despite the costumes (and associated costs), I was sorry to see her stop.

In my own youth, dance played an important role. My sister and I studied at the prestigious New York School of Ballet, under the strict tutelage of Barbara Fallis, former New York City Ballet soloist and mother of Richard (John-Boy Walton) Thomas. It was all very serious and we dutifully showed up each session in our pale pink tights and black leotards, hair pulled back in an unshakable bun. Soon, it became apparent that I wasn't going to have a career in ballet (I'd like to blame my hyperextended elbows but I fear a severe lack of balletic talent is the real cause). So, I turned away from the barre and moved into musical theatre. I was a triple threat: acting, singing and dancing, but the latter was always my weakest link. Still, I held my own and in college, I took so many studio classes that I qualified for a minor in dance. Finally, as a young working adult, Jazzercise and Step Aerobics filled my need to move (it was the big 80s, after all).

Dance also appears in the mythology my husband and I have woven together. We were coworkers and attending a big marketing meeting in Sandusky, Ohio. I was being harassed by one of our company's regional marketing directors — the man was all over me at the hotel bar and I didn't know how to get away. My then colleague (eventually boyfriend and now husband) stepped in and rescued me. "You owe me a dance," he said as he literally swept me out from under my lecherous suitor and onto the dance floor. He ran interference for me the rest of the week. It was all very knight in shining armor. Later as we became friends and eventually lovers, we compared notes about favorite hobbies and activities. "I like to go out dancing," I told him. "So do I," he asserted. This is proof that when you're falling for someone, you're willing to stretch the truth to make them like you. For the record, my husband didn't like dancing then ... and doesn't like dancing now.

Eventually, we married and moved to a little seaside town north of Boston. I became busy; I became pregnant. Except for the occasional wedding or bar mitzvah, dance sort of fell by the wayside.

Then, two years ago, I discovered Zumba. Zumba's philosophy is "Ditch the workout, join the party!" Choreographed to a fusion of Latin and international music, the classes are a terrific way to burn calories and have fun. More recently, I've fallen in love with Nia. This combination of eastern martial arts and modern dance is also a tremendous workout. But, the emphasis is on the joy of movement and on listening to and honoring your individual body. While I'm often one of the oldest women in my Zumba class, Nia tends to attract a more mature crowd. There are women of every shape and size and we are all there to "dance as if no one is watching."

A couple of weeks ago, two college students joined our class. They were gorgeous with big blue eyes, light brown hair and long, lean bodies. They wore running shorts and tank tops, while the rest of us were in oversized tee shirts and sweat pants. And, here's the remarkable thing. The girls were younger than any of us ... by at least a couple of decades. They were absolutely better looking by any conventional standard. Thinner, taller, tanner. But, they were so self-conscious. While we stretched and extended and leaped around the studio, the girls kept their limbs close into their bodies. We closed our eyes and let the music take us where it would. They watched themselves in the mirror and they were too embarrassed to move.

Here's what I think. Someday, they'll look back and remember just how beautiful, buoyant and gravity-defying their bodies were. Perhaps, as I do, they'll shake their heads and think like so many before them that "Youth is wasted on the young."

Then, I hope, they'll turn up the music, throw their heads back, take their fallen assets, and start twirling.