Fifty was a harder pill to swallow than any other age, like the big fish oil pill, my mom would dutifully make us take every morning during the winter months. The one that kept repeating on you all day and tainting every little morsel of food you had into a seaweed semblance.
Fifty felt like an end, an end of being a nurturing mom to some degree, there weren’t the snuggles and wiping the tears, supermom was still there but she wasn’t needed to save the day.
Fifty felt like a career gone and lost, I didn’t love what I did but I had neither the inclination or finances to head back to school and face it, who is going to hire someone over fifty- when there were lots of fresh young fish in the sea.
Fifty was the time I had five more years to work, the countdown to Freedom 55! Excuse me while I laugh so hard into my wine, that I cry precisely 50 tears because my eyes are dry from old age. Speaking of dry….well, this is a PG blog, so we will move that discussion to another page.
Fifty is when I started to plan my retirement, the funny thing was while my children’s lives were starting at University and double years of both of them attending, fifty was what I was lucky to have left in the bank after payday. And I am not taking $50,000, I am talking more like $50 dollars. So much for living in the south of France during the winter months in Canada.
Fifty is the age spots I now have on my hands, that I dutifully massage Vitamin C into to help them fade, at this rate, I might as well start bathing in it.
Fifty is the odd little hairs, black little pesky buggers I have growing out of very little mole on my body and 50cm is probably the length of the damn hair that I find growing out of my neck. I swear if I could mark my neck with a permanent marker X-I would keep checking there but the damn thing keeps moving. It is only in the right light, usually when I am somewhere I can’t yank it out, that I swear I see it blowing in the wind taunting me.
Fifty is the times I get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, either to wring out my night shirt from the night sweats or to pee. It is like being pregnant all over again, what I wouldn’t give for a full toilet rushing pee, a Niagara Falls kind of moment instead of this stream un-thawing in the spring-tinkle tinkle. That’s what woke me up-REALLY….
Fifty is the age I say I am, when I am really 51 and 275 days old. Shh…don’t tell and please just tell me I don’t look it! I will know you are lying but it will be our little secret.
Fifty is middle age, (if you are lucky) and well, I can chose to look at it as a glass half full or glass half empty. Pour me another glass of wine and I will toast to a glass very full, fifty or not!