Prince, and why we should wear more purple -

We’re baby boomers, most of us well over 50, so what are we supposed to act like?

Seriously. When we were kids, our 50+ relatives were ancient. Slow-moving. Wore polyester. Smoked cigars.

That wasn’t going to happen to us.

Now we’re there. 55. 60. 65. 70. 75+. We reach these ages and they don’t feel so different, other than a new creak in the bones or maybe a little less hair. But inside?

Heck, we still can rock it.

So how are we supposed to act, dress, conduct ourselves around others?

Prince’s death really got me to thinking about this. Granted, he was unusual. Didn’t dress like others. Like to wear high-heeled boots and jump off pianos. Looked good with some well-placed eyeliner. But most important, was touched by God in terms of musical talent. Simply amazing. Even if you don’t like some of the hits played on the radio, if you scope out some of his work on earlier albums, you’ll be blown away by his talent, musical ear, and savvy in the production room.

And he was generous, giving away millions, helping other musical artists, sharing his gifts.

Yet we tend to step back and judge, because he was different. Especially for someone who was 57. I mean, really. What’s up with that guy?

Why the heck does it matter so much?

So few among us (at least it seems this way) really keep celebrating the inner child, the inside voice that wants to play, wants to run down the beach, wants to play the music much too loud in the car.

Instead, we conform.

We turn down the volume.

Especially when we get older. After all, isn’t that how we’re supposed to act?

Is it? Really?

What if we lived in world where it was more than okay for us people over 50 to look any way we choose, dance any way we want, and basically claim all the freedom and wackiness due us after making it this far? What if we were the ones marketers wanted to sell the corvettes, vacations, fine wines, and giant speakers to?

What if the far left lane on the interstate was reserved for us?

What if, like Prince, we put on a purple jumpsuit, sprayed our cane silver, and strutted down the street?

Personally, I think we should. At least inside. if you can’t work up the nerve to do it outright, then try a few things.

Ride in your car with music you love turned up way too loud. Windows open, please.

Buy a crazy scarf or feather boa and wear it to the grocery store. Ask your barber or hairdresser about a little green highlight. Sleep later than ever. Have dessert first.

Wear purple.

Here are two poems, one for men, and one for women, about the joys and the freedom that come with aging.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat that doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me,
And I shall spend my pension
on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals,
and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired,
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells,
And run my stick along the public railings,
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens,
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat,
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go,
Or only bread and pickle for a week,
And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats
and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry,
And pay our rent and not swear in the street,
And set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me
are not too shocked and surprised,
When suddenly I am old
and start to wear purple!

Jenny Joseph

and now for the gentlemen:

WHEN I AM AN OLD MAN
When I am an old man, I will wear plaid trousers,
let my shirt tail hang out on one side on Tuesdays,
and wear ties that clash with everything.
I’ll carry a cane whether I need it or not,
to waggle at people who ask stupid questions
and poke pretty young girls.
I’ll have my ear pierced, the one that says you’re gay
(whichever that is)
and grin if someone mentions it.
I won’t smile on Thursdays, even if I’m chuckling inside,
I’ll never be angry on Sundays,
except in months when the sun doesn’t shine.
Maybe I’ll shave, and maybe I won’t,
depends on which eye I open first in the morning.
I’ll spit in public places, but not on people’s shoes,
unless they deserve it,
and belch from both ends when the spirit moves me.
I’ll eat tacos for breakfast, ice cream with salad,
drink tea with honey, coffee with maple syrup,
and rum with nothing at all.
I’ll stare everyone straight in the eye,
give my opinion on everything under the sun,
if I’m asked, and especially if I’m not.
I’ll forget how to spell “rules” but not “integrity”,
“obligations”, but not “responsibility”,
“expectations”, but not “honor”.
I’ll speak to God direct, help him out when he needs it,
but gently, cause mainly he does good work,
when people leave him alone, that is.
I’ll cry at movies and funerals,
laugh at my own mistakes, if I make any,
hug my sons and my daughters every chance I get,
raise my hat to any woman wearing purple.
I think I’ll have more fun
saying what I think,
being who I am,
staring at the stars,
when I am an old man, wearing plaid trouser