If you are female and between the ages of ohhhhh…… 50 and 60-ish, you are undoubtably aware that Davy Jones passed away unexpectedly this week.
Davy was my first boyfriend and I graciously shared him with millions of other women who adored The Monkees, second cousins-twice removed from the British phenomenon called The Beatles.
When celebrities die, I am sad but admit that I never really understand why some people seem to struggle with the news more than others.
Until my Davy.
When I heard the news, I immediately flashbacked to an image of a skinny, underdeveloped redheaded girl with an overabundance of freckles,struggling with adolescence and the shyness and awkwardness that accompanies puberty.
Davy was my Justin Bieber with his boyish good looks and his perfectly coiffed hair. He was the imaginary boyfriend I hoped to someday have and I knew every one of the Monkees songs by heart!
I slept with his album under my pillow.
Seriously… I did.
And so, now I get it.
When we mourn the loss of a celebrity, especially when that person came into our lives during our formative years, what we are mourning is, in a sense, our own mortality and we become keenly aware of the passing of time.
Davy played a prominant role in my pre-teen years when I had most of my life ahead of me and was trying to figure out who I would become. Life was full of possibilities and the future was waiting to be written.
I’m no longer thin and underdeveloped! (ha!!) I’m no longer shy but at times find myself in situations where that awkward little girl lingers inside, wondering who I will become next and what the future holds.
Good-bye Davy. Thanks for being there for me. And just in case you’re wondering…..
I’m still a daydream believer!