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You’re Here.
There I was at an Elton John concert — lights exploding, stage glowing like Vegas met Broadway and had a glitter baby.
And then it happened.
“B-B-B-B-B BENNY AND THE JETS!”
I was up.
Not politely nodding.
Not tasteful shoulder swaying.
UP.
Air piano. Full commitment.
Guitar hinging on strings that absolutely did not require my participation.
Drum rolls in spirit while the actual drummer had things fully under control.I dart-shuffled toward the stage like security might recruit me as a backup dancer at any moment.
The man in front of me turned around with that look:
“Are we doing this?”
Yes, sir. We are doing this.
He stood up too.
Soon others followed.
I had started a movement.
Or so I thought.
I was feeling the music in my DNA. I grew up around music. This was not a concert. This was a calling.
I even scored a signed picture. Signed. Sealed. Delivered.
Teenage version of me was screaming.And then…
The lights came on.
Elton said his goodbyes.
I walked back toward my seat, glowing with post-performance energy.
And I looked around.
Rows.
Of.
People.
Sitting.
Calmly.
Hands folded.
Smiling politely.
No one was climbing imaginary drum sets.
No one was summoning security intervention.
No one had sweat in places they hadn’t perspired since 1994.And I thought:
What is wrong with all of you?
Why is no one dancing?
Why are you enjoying this like it’s a symphony recital?
And then it hit me like a rogue spotlight.
Oh.
These are my people.
A quiet chill went up my spine.
I am these people.
We stood carefully before the crowd surged.
Not because we were timid.
Because our hips had entered into collective bargaining.
On the drive home, I was silent.
My spirit was still screaming “Encore!”
My knees were whispering, “We’ll be filing a report in the morning.”
When did this happen?
When did dancing require a recovery plan?
When did “living your best life” require orthopedic consultation?
Because here’s the truth:
The vibe was still there.
The fire was still there.
The only difference?
The warranty expired.
And somewhere between “Benny and the Jets” and the parking lot…
I realized something profound.
We didn’t stop loving the music.
We just started loving the exit aisle more.
And honestly?
That might be the most Normal After 50 thing of all.