Today Leonard Cohen released his twelfth album. Like Christmas morning I woke early, but instead of staring into the glittering tree and shiny, wrapped packages in predawn darkness I stared at my iTunes account and clicked some buttons to receive my gift. And now this album on repeat. We’ll spend our day together.

It feels like we’re on a date. I brushed my hair, slicked my lips with gloss, moisturized, felt nervous. I’m self-conscious about my decision not to wear a bra. I’m a little too pale.

Our relationship is as real as any other.  We’ve been through some times together. Small town youth together, huddled away from bush parties and Metallica. Lonely long distance relationship nights. That one woman show. That flight across the country for that one chance and it worked. We met once. It was a whirlwind. Just hand-holding, some meaningful conversation, even more meaningful eye contact. Much less than others have shared with him, but more than many others. He was 71 then. I was 26. He didn’t have to be so giving, accommodating, empathetic, but he was.

I’m in awe. Sometimes even those considered great falter as they age. They lose touch, they refuse to move or be moved. They become grumpy in a way that can either make us laugh at them or with them or question their greatness. They lose sense of how to relate to those who admire them. Our buddy here, he isn’t like that. 

We can always create stuff.

Like Leonard at 77 we can record albums, inspire fangirls, entice groupies. Like Betty White at 90 we can sweep awards shows, deliver charming, hilarious speeches. Like Don Rickles at 85 we can still be brilliant assholes.

Let’s not forget to love our old people. The awesome ones. The ones who deserve it. Not the jerky ones. Even though, sometimes learning from jerks produces some pretty solid lessons.

Let’s just get old and be fucking great.