I TURNED FIFTY - NOW WHAT?

Well, I'm happy to report I survived the Big Day. I am now 50 years old. Friends, family and coworkers are all telling me that turning 50 is no big deal. And to them I want to say, Shut the f**k up! It IS a big deal, and I AM getting old. There's no need to whitewash it. We Americans live in a youth-obsessed culture, and I am no longer youthful. Sure, there are times when I feel youthful, but that feeling only lasts until my tennis elbow acts up,  or I catch a glimpse of my butt in the mirror and see new dimples forming on top of my cellulite. I try to cheer myself up by reminding myself that along with age comes wisdom. However, this only works until I realize I don't know what today's date is.  I must admit I'm looking forward to a few things that will happen as I navigate my fifth century of life, one of them being that I will no longer have to buy or use tampons. That will be superb! I'm also looking forward to inheriting some money from my father when he passes away. That sounds awful, I know. I do not, repeat, DO NOT want my father to die any time soon, nor do I think he owes me any money when he does die. But if he wants to leave me a few bucks, I'd have to respect his last wishes, now, wouldn't I?  I definitely wouldn't spend it all at once. That would be very un-wise of me to do...
...but let me get back to the present. I'm adjusting to this new number that is my age as best as I can. I am grateful for friends, family and good health. I have a great husband and I live in a nice home. I wouldn't trade any of these things for another shot at youth. No, the only "shot" at youth I'm considering at 50 is a shot of Botox in between my eyebrows. Stay tuned...

FIfty is Nifty - NOT!

This is not an easy post to write. Not only am I reluctant to admit that I am about to turn f-f-f-fifty soon, but it's literally hard to write this because my fingers and hands are achy with what I can only assume is arthritis, the bane of those of us entering or in the half-century club. In a few weeks, I'll be fifty years old. Officially. I've been telling people I'm almost fifty for the past several months because I thought that would help to cushion the blow when the dreaded date actually arrived. But even so, I am still not loving the thought of very soon becoming a has-been to advertisers and employers. Fifty is NOT nifty. Not in my book. I'd gladly give up my AARP discount at the Holiday Inn in exchange for better eyesight, healthy joints, and naturally blonde hair. I know there's no way to stop the clock from ticking, but that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. When I'm struggling to keep this aging thing in perspective as the Big Day gets imminent,  I try to remember something my father in his infinite and blunt wisdom told me. He said,  "You think 50 is bad? Just wait til you're 75!" Thinking about him saying that to me always lifts my mood a bit. If only it would lift my sagging face, too. Oh, well. I suppose that boost will have to be left to a plastic surgeon to accomplish.