Here’s what I wonder…is fifty really the new forty? And if it is, do I feel forty? Hmm…good question. A little truth I’ll disclose is that I don’t even remember turning forty. Sure, I could blame it on ‘old’ age or impending menopause, but the truth is that nothing super fantastic happened when I turned forty. I didn’t have a big party, didn’t do anything drastic like suddenly dye my hair another color or indulge in the latest get-skinny fad. When I turned forty it was just another birthday, another year, and that’s how its’s been since. I’ve heard that turning fifty is supposed to feel monumental, a time when you can look back on your accomplishments and smile. The thing is, I do that all the time now, so why is fifty any different? And really, what is all the hoopla about turning fifty anyway? Twenty-one is exciting for the obvious reasons, but fifty? Do I want to celebrate a birthday simply because of the number I’m turning, or should every birthday be celebrated as if it were your last?
See….this is what happens when you turn fifty. You overthink. Get used to it. You’re welcome.
If I was asked to list my greatest accomplishments in all my numerous years (she says with a deep, sultry voice), I’d say without a doubt my husband and two kids. Being married for almost thirty years…now that my friends is something to celebrate as an accomplishment. Raising two kids that are independent, smart, kind and funny….that is to be celebrated as well. Seems rather idiotic to celebrate a number, when the accomplishments are so darn great.
So while I’m listing my accomplishments, let me add a few more (you know, because I’m fifty and I’m allowed to be long-winded). Being healthy….that’s an accomplishment I suppose. I’ve also had some great jobs, some not so great jobs, but the best by far is not a job at all, but rather an accomplishment…that of writer. Shocker that I’d slide that in, but hey…I’m half a century old now so if I want to brag I can. Here’s the thing though, it took me until two years ago to be brave enough to jump into the shark invested waters of self-publishing. That’s a lot of years of keeping my “babies” locked in my head. Unless you’re a writer yourself, you will never understand the level of fear of letting a part of yourself - your imagination, your heart - go like that. Sure it can be liberating, but there will always be that tiny voice in my head that says, “Keep that one for yourself.”
Here’s another truth I’ll disclose…I hate typing ‘the end’. There’s this weird sort-of mourning period I go through after, which is really dumb I know, but I feel like I’m saying goodbye to a long lost friend. I’ve even been known to shed a tear or two. See…I told you…dumb.
In case you’re wondering, yesterday was the big day. And while I had a fantastic birthday celebration, I did not wake up and suddenly look or feel different. There are days I feel more than fifty, days I feel like a teenager. I assume that’s just a part of life. Or I’m crazy. You pick.
Sometimes I wonder if there’s anyone out there (other than my family and friends) who actually read these blogs. I suppose someone must, for curiosity sake more than anything. Who is this chick and what’s she all about? Well congratulations, if you’ve read this blather about me turning fifty you’ve learned one thing for certain….fifty probably isn’t so bad after all.