Coming Of Age

I have one of those big birthdays coming up. Hmmmmm, I'm certain I've miscounted (which is always a possibility). I'm gonna be 50. Crap, there, I've said it.

I don't feel like 50, well, except for some mornings when it hurts to roll over. And some nights when it hurts to get up. And some afternoons when I can't wait to sit down.

Fifty has a connotation in my head of old. Too old to look good in shorts, wear base ball caps, to be hot. I'm afraid if I am not cautious the wrinkles will hit me like a bad case of the flu. My tummy is like a land slide area - all it needs is some signage. My boobs, well, they ain't what they used to be, but the support bra industry has a lot of job security. I admit to wearing orthotics sometimes (in my shoes, silly).

I am way more comfortable in my skin, but don't much care for my skins attitude toward me. Back when I probably was really hot, I was too young to appreciate it. At 12, how does one really know that kind of stuff. The irony is that while I don't understand those who choose botox, implants and tucks, I do have a teensy bit of envy for that.

We are raised to appreciate physical beauty, and to strive for that. I'm at the age where you long for the beauty, but say screw it to the work it takes to achieve it. I also know inner beauty shines way more brightly than a pretty face with no heart/soul to back it up.

I'm gonna go with the you are as old as you think theory. We don't really lose those other ages just because we add a new number to the tally. I'm an experienced 40 yr old with a 20-30 year old sense of humor, blessed by 50 years of grace to age me to perfection.