For me, drive time used to be a time warp.
The radio dial never moved.
I sang along with the artists of my youth, bands such as Bad Company, REO Speedwagon and ZZ Top, and was perfectly content.
But when my kids entered their teens, I promised to shed my dated music and commit to learning theirs.
Now, instead of feeling like a foreigner, I know the language.
I’m aware that Adam Levine moves like Jagger and that Lady Gaga has a reason for getting into that outrageous get-up: She was born that way.
And ever since my daughter stalked him in a Dallas mall, Joe Jonas feels like one of the family.
My education has extended to pop culture as well.
Years ago, my son dressed up as Old Gregg, the scaly man fish who drinks Bailey’s and has a mangina. I’m up on the latest exploits of Slender Man, the faceless legend who has terrified millions on YouTube.
The Wop, a jiggly dance best performed by women, has frequented my living room on many occasions.
And when some low-jeans-backward-hat-wearing punk walks by the house and tells me I went HAM (Hard As a Motherfucker) on that tree-trimming project, I simply nod and say, “That’s just the way I roll.”
There’s no avoiding getting old. But thinking — and acting — young is a hell of a lot of fun.