Recently I turned a half a century. Even as I write this, it is still amazing to me. Frankly I can’t believe it. If it weren’t for the fact that I have friends who I have grown up with who too are fifty or certainly a step or two away from it, I would think that my birth records had become mixed up with someone else’s, or that my mother has been lying to me about
my real age. But I know this is not so.
The weird thing about being fifty is that I don’t feel like what my perception of fifty would feel and look like. I feel young and I look young. After having recently been carded it dawned on me that perhaps on a good day the only thing that separates me from the twenty and thirty-somethings are my life experiences. Depending upon how one feels about
being mistaken for twenty or thirty, it’s not so bad.
When I was younger, fifty sounded like a different world. It was an age that sounded old and well, settled. When I look at pictures of my grandmothers, both of whom were stunningly attractive women in their forties and fifties, they personified their age group. It was a different time. There was a reserved look about them that spoke their age. But rarely was age something that women of that era discussed. They accepted and wore it for what it was. Today, as women we are bombarded with advertisements proclaiming to make us look younger, and feel younger. It is little wonder that when a woman reaches a milestone birthday she may feel like she has hit a brick wall and needs to do
something to keep her youth. The options are enough to make any confident woman dizzy and confused.
While it may feel good psychologically to hear that fifty is the new thirty, the body still knows otherwise. Botox, liposuction, plastic surgery will not fool Mother Nature or Father Time. Months before my birthday I was having trouble accepting that I was going to be fifty years old. Because I didn’t feel what my perception of fifty had always been, I told
myself that I just wouldn’t claim it. But then I realized that not claiming it would be just like getting cosmetic surgery. The truth would still be there under the surface. I may have been able to fool people, but I could not fool myself. Now that I am a few months into my half century status I have grown comfortable with the reality. It is not as scary as I had
thought it would be. Although it still feels odd when someone asks me my age and I manage to say “fifty” with confidence and sometimes amazement. It’s great when I get the deer-in-the-headlight look that says, “no way.” It’s truly an Oscar moment when someone tells me they thought I was thirty-five. I nearly want to kiss them and smother them with gratitude. But there is a grace that comes with age and instead I say, “Thank you,” because it’s enough.
Anyone breathing knows there is an alternative to aging. Not being here to watch it happen. I have lost friends who didn’t live to see thirty, forty or fifty. When I think of them I am reminded of the miracle of life and living long enough to be grateful to have reached this age. I was just not prepared for the years to arrive so quickly. It’s almost funny when I think of it in that way. It’s impossible to be mad at a blessing. And while all of the years have hardly been a walk in the park, turning fifty is a gift. The transcendence of each decade are reminders that the years are getting shorter. With every funeral I attend I think about my own mortality.
I have to accept that at fifty unlike thirty or even forty, my life is probably more than half over. It’s startling when I look at aging from that perspective. Looking back, when I turned thirty for no apparent reason I cried. As I approached forty I felt scared, then turning fifty forced me into momentary denial. Maybe there is something to be said about
milestone birthdays and the self-inflicted mystery it brings. I don’t know. But it is okay. Each decade since reaching adulthood has brought something new to my life. It may not have always been pleasant, but a lesson is a lesson all the same and I am grateful for having been around to get it. Maybe that in itself is the mystery and gift of aging.
I laugh when I read articles about women who proclaim a particular decade as being the best years of their life. I wonder who these women might be since I know successful, educated, average, gorgeous, tenacious, resourceful, bold, witty, funny, compassionate, serious, smart, women, who will admit that while they are grateful to be alive they can’t
claim any one entire decade as being the best years of their life.
I think the charm in aging is making it through the years mentally unscathed. Everything else is gravy. Recently when I found myself thinking that it couldn’t be possible that I was going to be fifty, I tried to imagine the alternative. I turned on some music and danced! I began to think about the struggles, disappointments, and plans gone south and I danced
harder. Then I thought about all of the wonderful experiences only I could have had and will have and I nearly tore up the floor! I realize that it has been one hell of a journey. And if the journey is about what living is all about, then mine, thus far, has been grand. So, while turning fifty still amazes me, I have further reached the conclusion that I have obligations to the universe I must meet, that my purpose here on earth is far from complete. Therefore, am embracing fifty with bravado. After all, what else can I do but hop on the saddle and see where the next century takes me?
Anyway, that’s the way I see it.
