I am a senior-junior

I read in ARA a news item that “calls out to me”. Tibidabo will be “the stage for the biggest event ever conceived entirely for the active senior generation”. Wait, this must be meant for me and those of my generation. Are we active seniors? You bet! We want to party! It’s promoted by a platform called Club65, which makes me think I’ll be one of the youngest at the gathering. This club says it will “fill the summit of Barcelona with talent, music, humor, and well-being”, and that makes me smile. Since we are seniors, there will be talent, yes; music, yes; humor, too, and well-being. This means there won't be many big beers, since we're of a certain age. The party will have a “marathon schedule”, they promise me, and I, upon reading it, am already sharpening my claws. I will close the after, I will see the sun rise. But then I keep reading and my joy turns to sorrow (that’s an expression we seniors say a lot, like the juniors, who say bro). The marathon schedule runs from “11:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m.”. In other words, at half past nine, yogurt and to bed.

The music that will be there is also very senior. There are no Tyets, nor any tribute band to the Sex Pistols. There is Los Sírex, who are also seniors, and the Beatles tribute band, Abbey Road. The humor part is provided by another senior: Joan Pera.

I am in a difficult age bracket. On the train, it angers me that they don’t give me their seat, because it’s hard to believe, and it angers me that they do give it to me, because what do they think? It angers me to think that this year, if I weren’t working, I would already receive the pink card, and if I received it, I would tear it up, but it angers me even more not to receive it, and if I don’t receive it, I will protest. I claim my right to duality, to senior immaturity, to be an ancienne terrible, to say that they won’t make me go to sleep like the chickens, only to, at nine o’clock, start nodding off. Bro.