Fifty-One

Next week, as hard as it is to comprehend, I will turn fifty-one years old.  The number alone just sounds old.  Prim.  Humorless. Decidedly sedate.  It conjures up images of degenerative backs, orthopedic hose, fiber, and grandchildren (although I have none).  It is sobering, to think that you likely have lived over half of your life already, and I suppose, if you looked at it only that way, it's kind of sad. I have always looked forward to birthdays.  You know how kids always round up to their next year? I never stopped doing that.

 I'm ten AND A HALF!  I'm ALMOST 16!  I'll be THIRTY-FIVE in three months.  This year I TURN FORTY!  I'll be FIFTY in six days!

I always embraced the next age, eternal optimist and ham-handed self-promoter that I am.  I'm telling you I'll be sixteen soon so you'll realize I'm ALMOST an adult.  I'm telling you I will turn thirty-five in three months so that you can marvel that I am a responsible parent and I have arrived squarely into adulthood.  I want you to know I'm turning fifty so that you can express astonishment because, well, you know......I don't look a day over forty-seven.

I never had a problem with any age.  No mid-life crisis; I never felt the need to try to hold onto my youth because I have been fortunate through my exquisite genetics to still look fairly decent for my age.  I've always been proud to make it to the next milestone, and fifty was no exception.  I talked about turning fifty non-stop.  "Can you believe it?  I'll be fifty!!"

Honey, I rocked that tiara.

                                                                      

I know, right?


And so, here I am, almost fifty-one.  If I were a "the glass is half-empty" kind of gal,  I could dwell on the fact that without question, some doors are now permanently shut:

I will never again experience the joy of giving birth.

Not only can I not give birth, I can't even donate my old eggs any more.

I cannot, under any circumstances, join the armed forces.  Any branch.  Hoo-ah.

I cannot go to school to become a doctor.

I can no longer tell the difference in the morning between the jar of coffee and the Comet without my bifocals.

Coloring my hair is no longer optional.

I can't jump on the trampoline anymore with the kids without wetting myself.

I will probably never remarry.

I could no longer be a believable cast member of Thirty Something, unless I played the bitchy recluse spinster next door.

I have missed the window of opportunity to compete in the professional pole-dancing circuit.


Instead, being "The Glass is Half-Full" gal that I am, I can skid sideways whoopin' and hollerin' with a martini in one hand through a few that have not completely closed on me, and dwell on what is still pretty positive:

Guys in their thirties dig fairly attractive women twenty years older than they are, and they ARE NOT afraid to tell you.

I cannot, under any circumstances, join the armed forces.  Any branch.  Hoo-ah.

I still have to pull out my ID to prove I'm over twenty-one when I buy wine.  Yes, it's the law, but it's a damned good one.  Let's not ever get rid of it.

Throw it at me.  Bring it on.  I've seen it all, I've been there and I've done that.  Bring it.  I won't crumble.

I'm twenty-five years older than Marilyn Monroe got to be.  Twenty-five.

Madonna will always be four years older than me.  Always.

 I've never been arrested, and I don't think I have the energy or the desire to do anything remotely deviant enough to put me in jail now.  But if I did, it would have to be bad enough to give me front page notoriety.

I don't mind being on my own.

I've contributed five beautiful human beings with worthwhile lives to the world.

I can look someone dead in the eyes, never raise my voice, and get much more than I ever could when I was half my age.

Bifocals are dead sexy.


So, next Thursday, I turn fifty-one, and I will be in New Orleans. Celebrating.   I'm going to whoop and holler and drink wine in the French Quarter.  And why not?  The years are a gift; no one knows how many we're going to get.  Enjoy them and be thankful.


I'm going to run laughing into that sunset.

Try to stop me.  Laissez les bon temps rouler.