50? How Did THAT Happen?

I turn 50 today.  A big milestone for many, just another day for others.  I think for me, it will fall somewhere in between.

Many people tell me I don’t look 50.  I’m not sure what 50 is supposed to look like, but I think I probably have that look.  Do they not see the wrinkles, gray hair, and various body parts sliding toward the south?   Mary Kay and Miss Clairol can only do so much!

Too often, I feel way older than 50 – tired, worn out, stiff joints, falling asleep in the sun like an old cat.   I’m not sure when I started feeling so old, but I like to blame it on Facebook.  There I was enabled to re-connect with many former classmates from high school.  Granted it’s been a few years since we graduated, but here were several talking about their children’s weddings, grandchildren, retirement . . . wow!  How did they get so old??? Then it hit me – that’s me!  I’m old, too –  I’m just in denial. 

I got married later in life than most, to a man who is a few years younger than I.  (Just 3 1/2, so I don’t qualify as a cougar.)  I  was always the oldest mother at my children’s activities, so maybe that helped others perceive me as younger.  I avoid being the responsible adult in any given situation as often as possible, although sometimes responsibility finds me.

I don’t think 50 today is what it was when our parents were turning 50.  Sure I qualify for AARP now and many senior discounts, but mentally I don’t feel that my life is nearing an end.  Fifty is way past halfway.  But there are so many new beginnings, so much more to do that I haven’t done yet.  None of us know when we will take our last breath, but we can make the most of every day.

My sister recently asked what size shoe I wore.  She was shopping for my birthday present, and wanted to make sure the store had the red stilettos in my size.  Or she said she would re-gift the book I gave her a few years ago about what to do after 50.  I would much rather have the red heels than a used book.  Plus, I think if I can carry off red stilettos, I’m not ready for a book about my golden years. . . not yet, anyway. 



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