Who says that rock stars are all male, under 30, tattooed, and otherwise unemployed?

One recent morning in Lake Wylie, two professional 30-something women — conspicuously over 30 — were found secretly playing Guitar Hero at 7:35 a.m., proving that anybody can jam, anywhere, anytime — as long as there is a simulated guitar to help with the actual, um, playing of notes.

OK … so the two rockers were in all actuality me and my neighbor (who also happens to be my sister). But the point is, there we were, in our professional work attire, hair and lipstick just so, swearing because we missed a riff or two.

We both have kids, husbands, houses, and, thankfully, jobs. But we also spent many a morning riding to school listening to her then boyfriend’s beat-up cassette tape of Led Zeppelin II — I think it was actually held together by masking tape — and Van Halen I, both of which, thank you very much, were already considered “Classic Rock” by that time.

Actually, my sister is responsible for much of the finer elements of my early rock tutorial. Music has, over the years, maintained a delicate string of connection between us, even when we were teens and didn’t like each other very much. I put up with her Prince obsession; she took my Duran Duran stage in stride. These days, I lend an ear to State Radio at her behest; she gives Ween a listen or two, just for me.

Truth be told, we grew up jamming to eight-track tapes of, among others, Three Dog Night (rock on), Elton John before he decided to make a living doing Disney soundtracks, and Wings (I don’t care what you say, Band On The Run is one of the greatest songs of all time).

I still remember the day my parents’ home was robbed over a decade ago, and how we all managed to laugh because, though the thieves took every CD in the place and even stole a trashcan, they left the still-working eight-track player on the shelf. My father said the only reason the robbers left it was because they didn’t know what the heck it was.

I’ll admit that all of the music of my early childhood doesn’t qualify as the stuff of guitar-riff legend (seriously, my sister and I know every word of Neil Diamond’s repertoire, and have even seen him in concert before — sorry, Heather, but I had to confess). But those experiences definitely laid the groundwork for our vast, if somewhat eclectic, music preferences. It certainly keeps these two working women sane, especially when deadlines keep coming, children keep whining, and computer systems keep crashing. And if nothing else, we can feel a sense of utter accomplishment when we score in the high-90s on Guitar Hero’s version of Hotel California …