I usually don’t like to talk about myself here … I prefer focusing on the kids, the dogs, the cat, the mother-in-law. Oh who am I kidding? Of course I talk about me. Probably way too much. And I’m doing it again today.
Today I turned 50. For you young’uns out there (and I define “young” as anyone young enough to be my own child… so we’ll say 50 minus 18 = 32, so 32!), weird things happen to your personality as you hit this milestone.
First, I round everything up. If someone asks how old my child is, instead of 19 I say 20. How much do I owe you? $14.50? $15.00 then.
Secondly, I’m so much more sensitive to my reactions to people. If someone is short with me, I try to consider that perhaps there’s something terrible going on in their life that I don’t know about so I try to treat them with a degree of kindness.
On the other hand, I don’t really give two hoots if I accidentally burp and someone hears me. Meh. It’s a part of your biological function. If I haven’t shaved my legs before I go workout, I don’t care. You don’t like hairy legs? Look the other way.
If I want to have a drink with my dinner - even under my mother-in-law’s disapproving gaze - I have a drink. I don’t overdo it (those were for the long-gone college days) so it shouldn’t matter to her or anyone else that I happen to like the taste of certain amber liquids.
I feel my spirit is wise and yet I still act like a goofy teenager. I shook my booty in front of my husband earlier this week while trying on a new bathing suit (that covers my upper legs because otherwise… gross).
Physically, I look at my hands and see my fingers getting more wrinkled. My toes are also starting to wrinkle. It’s weird. And I’m growing those disgusting jowl things at the bottom of my face. I’ve tried not to look too hard in the mirror at my face wrinkles, but I know they’re there.
The other weird thing about turning 50 is realizing that I may have only another 20 or 30 years left in this life. Or less. That’s a bit sobering. But have I embraced this life I’ve had so far? I believe so. Do I care if I’m forgotten? That’s the hundred thousand dollar question. I think being forgotten is inevitable because I’m certainly not Jesus or Buddha or Mohammad or any other prophet who we still talk about after thousands of years. So instead of worrying about being remembered, I just hope that I’ve raised my children so they look for happiness in life rather than clinging to bitterness. And they can raise their children the same way. And they’ll pass it on to my great-grandchildren… and the seasons go round and round …
Who knows? Maybe in a thousand years, someone will be reading this on the new and improved internet via their direct brain link. Howdy 2525!
Photo of me at 16. When I was young and nice.
Nothing is more maddening than waiting in the car line to drop the kids off at school and the car in front of you just sits there. And sits. And sits. Finally, a kid gets out then reaches back inside the car to get his or her backpack. Puts it on. Then reaches back in the car ONCE AGAIN to grab a book or money or whatever else they were not organized enough to have ready when they reached the front of the line.
