Aging to her own beat

Septuagenarian’s closest friends are decades younger

“She’s just a young woman wrapped up in an old body,” The Washington Post once wrote of Disco Sally, a 77-year-old woman who dirty-danced all night with the young, wild kids at Studio 54 in New York. When I read about the recently widowed former lawyer in the 1970s, she had a boyfriend in his 20s, and the likes of Bill Murray and Dustin Hoffman were lining up to dance with her.

As a single 35-year-old at the time, I found her behaviour reeking of desperation. Why couldn’t she act her age, I wondered. Why did she embarrass herself by dressing in high-top sneakers and tight jeans? What was wrong with growing old gracefully and hanging out with your peers?

At that age, I was on the hunt for a man to love me, and I felt that time was ticking. I couldn’t imagine anyone loving an old woman.

Well, I’m now 76, and I understand Disco Sally perfectly. In fact, I have become her — my version of her. I am long divorced and no longer interested in a mate. But I still want to have a good time.

I’ve taken on the mantle of token cool old lady in a group of young people who admire me for my refusal to become as stodgy as the other old people they know. I am a role model for them because I refuse to act my age, though compared with Sally, my behaviour is pretty sedate. I don’t dance the night away, but I do get drunk at parties, enjoy horror movies and find South Park hilarious.

I did not seek out this lifestyle. My version of Sally just happened. I moved to Florida from Woodstock, N.Y., a few years ago to escape my ex. I wound up in a retirement community because the rents are low. But I didn’t make any friends there, because — well — I’m not retired. I don’t play canasta or mah-jong, and I don’t enjoy senior sports. I like to swim laps ... alone.

Meetup.com rescued me. I was thrilled to find a horror and sci-fi movie meetup, since I couldn’t find anyone my age to go to a horror movie with me. The horror and sci-fi movie crowd — a nerdy bunch of misfits who tend toward high intelligence and low social skills — were all at least 20 to 30 years younger than me, but I fit right in. I’d found my posse.

I became the special friend of Andrew — a brilliant, charismatic Godzilla fanatic — a web designer in his early 50s who holds parties at his place where he shows kitschy horror films. We bonded over our interest in highbrow sci-fi and while trading bon mots. He insists I’m the only person who “gets” his sarcastic remarks. What I love best about Andrew is his commitment to inclusivity — everyone is invited to his parties, no matter their age, race, looks or income. I get to hang out with men — who are scarce in my demographic — and people I never would have met otherwise: morticians, scrap-metal-business owners, female chemists and engineers.

At Andrew’s parties, I get to do stuff generally eschewed by folks my age, like drink Jell-O shots, eat junk food instead of quinoa salads, stay up past midnight and play Cards Against Humanity.

At Andrew’s parties, I drop my usual shyness and talk to everyone without any fear of rejection. I am a novelty, a role model, a Disco Sally for the nerds. Like Sally, I don’t try to look young. My hair is grey and my face is unlifted.

The best thing about hanging out with this group is not who they are, but who I am when I am with them.