So this is happening… I am turning 50. Tonight there will be a party where my family and friends will most certainly assure me that “50 is the new 40” . (How does that make any sense at all? What does that say about 25? Are these sexually active adults only 15 now? That undoubtedly makes a portion of their daily life experiences yucky and possibly illegal).
I will also be told repeatedly that I look “great for my age”. (Thank you? What is the ‘bar’ for this standard? Having all of my own teeth? No facial warts? Should I point out the assistance of my Victoria’s Secret push up bra and a pair of spanx or would that ruin the moment?)
And there will be many, many, MANY compliments about how wonderful my children are. Always appreciated but somehow slightly less so on this particular day, when their obvious charms seem served up as validation of my value as a woman (You did it old gal… reached the pinnacle of womanhood… literate and socially acceptable progeny)
I am sure that this post sounds petulant and whiny (first world problem #1,000,008… ‘unsettling’ compliments at your awesome birthday party). And it’s not like I have never handed out exactly the same phrases to half the people who will be in attendance. Yep… I’m ungrateful and a hypocrite… and old. Let’s not forget “old” because that’s really what the occasion is all about. No one baked a cake out of appreciation for how great I am looking or how delightful my kids are. Nope… I am blowing out those candles because I am 50. That is OLD and I am more than okay with that reality.
Young was great. It was fun and exciting and sexy and I loved every minute of it. But I don’t want to try and hold onto 40 when I’m 50 (Have you seen Courtney Cox lately? She has crazy eyes. And she looks really hungry…the woman needs carbs!).
I’m ready to embrace 50. I can’t wait to throw my thongs into the bin and fill my top drawer with ‘comfortable’ underwear. I want to listen to the ‘oldies’ channel on the radio, eat pudding for dessert with every meal, and go to bed early. I want ‘young people’ to help me load groceries into my car and let me butt in line at the bank. I want to get discounts at the movies… (Whoa! I think I overshot this a little. May have to wait another decade for the movie discounts and possibly even the pudding… but I’m pretty sure the rest is well within my grasp).
What I’m trying to say is that 50 is good. I am happy to be exactly where I am. And I am going to love my party even if some of the people there to celebrate with me are freaked out, just a little, by the whole aging thing.
My dog, Buster, will be at my party, but he won’t be even a tiny bit uncomfortable about the theme of the event. Nope. So far as Buster is concerned, it’s just another day. Another day in a life that seems pretty good to him. Buster and I are a lot alike that way.