The Serious Practice of Fun...
Fun is not always spontaneous. Sometimes it is organised, rehearsed, dressed up and shared.
Every year, Cooly Rocks fills our streets with old cars, 1950s clothes, dancing, music, and people who look as though they know how to have fun.
I usually avoid that part of town during festival week.
Crowds drain me.
Noise drains me.
The logistics alone are enough to send me in the opposite direction. But this year I found myself wondering: what do they know that I might be missing?
I am not drawn to the crowds.
I am drawn to the aliveness.
They all seem to have so much fun. I thought it was worth noticing how they do it. So I decide to go, not as an enthusiast, but as an observer.
It is Day One of the nostalgia festival, and already the precinct feels transformed. The blue sky and winter sunshine, ordered in advance, do not disappoint. The forecast promises more of the same.
Rockers are rolling in. Hot rods are arriving. I am led to believe there will be around 900 classic cars noisily showing off before the weekend is done.
Retired people, and those who wish they were, have begun moving through town in caravans, following the festival circuit from rock and roll to Elvis and back again. Local caravan parks are heaving with excited agers-turned-teenagers. Many have escaped the southern cold to return to the fifties in the subtropics.
This is not simply a festival.
It is a temporary world.
We head to our favourite beachside coffee shop to observe, and find a massive festival set-up already in place. Stage. Dance floor. Marquees. Elvis precinct. Stalls selling everything 1950s.
As far as the eye can see, people are setting up shop with racks of what my granddaughter would call ‘fits’—that’s ‘outfits’ for our generation
Swing dresses with fitted bodices and flared circle skirts designed to spin. Petticoats with volume. Polka dots, gingham checks, cherry motifs, leopard print. Snug cardigans. Peter Pan collars. Proper dance shoes. Bobby socks. Glittering headbands. Ponytail ribbons. Elvis jackets. Marilyn jackets. Even classic 1950s aprons for those drawn to the June Cleaver end of the fantasy.
Everything from the classy to the not-so-classy.
And people are buying.
Shopping bags are already collecting on arms. Show bags from the merchandise tent are added to the haul. The weekend has barely begun, and the transformation is underway.
From my café vantage point, I can see the keen early starters.
One woman is already dressed head to toe in 1950s style, though watching her walk in her fancy 1950s shoes, I’m not sure her feet will survive the weekend. A man walks past with Elvis glittering on the back of his black jacket. Another has slicked-back hair, tattoos, and a stance to match the whole rockabilly mood.
The flared skirts are showing up early, some sensibly paired with sneakers for the first pass through town.
And this is what catches me.
Aging bodies, dressed up and participating.
People stepping into character.
Wearing their passion.
I notice early starters pushing walkers (rollators). The odd walking stick. Even crutches among the early crowd. I see a grandmother pushing a great-grandmother in a wheelchair.
And I wonder whether this is like the Tai Chi elders I sometimes see moving with grace, before returning to a more careful walk once their practice is over.
Maybe some of these people will leave their walkers at the edge of the dance floor and get on with the serious business of a rock-and-roll festival.
Dancing.
After all, movement is life.
There is an air of excitement and expectation building, and the music has not even started. Even the squawking seagulls seem to know something is in the air.
I love the idea of fun.
But my fun identity clearly lives in lycra, sportswear, or hiking gear. Give me a Peloton ride, a walk, a rail trail, a hike through the English countryside, or a body that feels capable, and I understand the pleasure immediately.
This kind of fun is different.
It is public. Theatrical. Noisy. Costumed. Shared.
And, to my surprise, it is not loose or frivolous.
It is structured.
Cooly Rocks is not accidental fun. It is highly organised joy.
They dress the part.
They learn the dances.
They showcase cars.
They polish the chrome.
They gather in the street.
They enter a shared story for a weekend.
That may be what I have underestimated.
I tend to think of structure as something that supports discipline, health, work, training, or self-regulation. I know how to build systems to help me exercise, write, restore, and stay steady.
But here, structure is supporting joy.
Not private joy. Not quiet joy. Not the modest pleasure of a good routine.
Public joy.
That may be what I had not seen before.
The kind that says: here I am, still willing to dress up, show up, move, laugh, remember, exaggerate, perform, and belong.
I am not sure I will ever become a festival person.
My nervous system may always prefer the quieter edge of the action, preferably with a good coffee and a clear path to escape. But I am beginning to see fun as one of the serious practices of aging well.
Not because we need to become someone else.
But because we need to keep finding ways to enter life with more of ourselves.
Even if only for a weekend.
My Favorite Reads this week:
My Social Battery Sent a Resignation Letter by Garima Sharma
The Hidden Reason You Feel Cold More Often After 60 by Senior Health Secrets
I Wouldn’t Want to Be 22 Right Now by The Old Grey Thinker
'Structure is supporting joy.'💙 Fun after a certain age doesn't just happen, you have to go find it, dress for it, show up for it. That's not less fun. It might actually be more!!