But I'm taking it really well!
To be honest, it is going better than I'd expected. My teeth haven't all fallen out and neither of my hips seem like they'll need replacing soon. Although I did find my first gray hair on the morning of my birthday (I'm not kidding - that sucker just bounced out of my head like one of those pop-up turkey timers. Like it was saying, "Hello! You're ready! FOR OLDNESS.)
For the longest time I was reluctant to put my age out into the blogosphere. Let's face it – the blogging world is a young one. I mean, when you read people's posts and they're saying things like, "My mom said phones used to have dials on them" and "OMG Miley Cyrus takes me back to my youth" - well, you know you're one of the more vintage bottles in the cellar.
It was especially annoying when people would talk about the sixties like it was ancient history, wondering if there was electricity back then and what did people use to hunt their food. I mean, they really deserved to have comments left by 'Anonymous' on their blog that said, "Go change your diaper" and "I oughta tan your hide you whippersnapper." Not that I know who was responsible for that.
I admit I don't look fifty. At least, that's what people say. (When they've had a few. And been paid.) And I certainly don't feel fifty. As my most hip, stylish friend Natalie says, who is going to be hitting the five-oh soon herself, "Who knew fifty would feel this good?" And I have to agree - I have no desire to put on a pair of mom jeans or a polyester blazer. I haven't put my hair up in a bun with a hairnet, and I'm not going to bed at 8pm with my teeth in a glass next to me. Although I did catch my self saying, "What I wouldn't give for an afghan and a glass of fiber" the other day.
But here's my secret weapon, the one thing that I constantly say to make myself feel better. No, it's not, "Age is just a number" or "You're only as old as you feel" or any of that other touchy-feely mumbo jumbo. It's this:
I'M STILL YOUNGER THAN MADONNA.
That's right - the Material Girl is going to be fifty-three this year, and she's making music, directing movies and dressing like a hooker. I'm not saying she's my role model, or that I'm going to be putting on a bullet bra and parading around in ass-less chaps anytime soon (at least not in public) but it's good to see that life doesn't end when you hit the half-century mark, that you can still be a productive, vital, creative force who gets to put on a leather bustier and prance around with Justin Timberlake.
So I've decided that I'm going to embrace fifty, and the fact that I'm still standing, have a great marriage and raising two bright, beautiful girls. That I'm on my second career and my last minivan. That I can still wear stilettos even if I complain bitterly about them the entire time. That I'm older than most of you out there but still younger than Madonna. I'm even going to get used to writing those gawd-awful numbers.
That last cheer totally threw my back out.
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