In my last post, I made a (very weak) joke about my husband being 53 years old and I am 27. I was just being silly when I wrote that. I really don't have a problem admitting that I'm 50 years old. It is what it is.
Fifty is a great number and brings to mind a lot of great things. Like the 50 stars on the American flag. The 1950s when saddle shoes and poodle skirts were all the rage. For 50th anniversaries it means gold, and who doesn't love that. It reminds me of the song by Paul Simon, 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover, which is a catchy little tune. And in high school, my basketball jersey was number 50.
Age is just a number, people say. It doesn't mean anything. Not the way it means something to me when my hairdresser tells me that the increasingly gray hair at my temples is getting tougher and tougher to highlight, so "we" are going to have to start dying the gray back to my original color, and then highlight on top of that. And I'm wondering, how long does that mean I have to sit in this blasted chair every time "we" do that? Maybe I'll just live with the gray.
While 50 is just a number, it is significant to me that, for our upcoming cruise next week, for the first time ever I don't care what my bathing suit looks like. Because at this stage in my life, I've discovered how fun beach cover ups can be, and I have an entire wardrobe of them. (And, yes, I said "bathing" suit. That's what people my age call them, not "swim" suits.)
I don't mind being 50, but I do mind that my ankles creak so much when I walk up stairs that my DH says, "You could never be a spy. People could hear you coming from a mile away."
There's nothing wrong with being 50. Except that every calorie seems to count as if it were 50, and my memory operates at about 50%. When I started this post, I had a whole list of reasons in my head of why 50 may be a great number, but this getting old stuff isn't for pansies. But, I can't remember them!
Still, I choose to look at the bright side. As DH says, "Getting old isn't so bad. It beats the alternative."