downhill: a commentary on this thing called aging.

My daughter texted me, asking if my upcoming birthday next month was the one where I would turn fifty.

F I F T Y.

My daughter thinks I am turning F I F T Y years old.

FIVE. ZERO.

I need a bigger font. Simple pseudo shouting will not cut it.

I’m not turning fifty. Not next month. Not next year.

But soon. SOON, you guys. SOON. Soon I will be HALF OF A CENTURY old. No, I will not lower my voice.

This is too much.

I cannot accept this.

If I cursed more, I’d curse now. This is a cursing age.

Fifty.

We all know what fifty year olds look like. They look like folks who have their cuss together. They look like people who own not just their own houses – but second houses. They’re legit lake people, not lake people for two days one time one summer. They’re people who have Roth somethings and IRA whatever and probably stocks and a retirement account and a GAME PLAN for the love of all things holy.

This number cannot be me yet. BECAUSE I AM NOT READY.

Shoot, I only just bought my first house not even two years ago. I’M NOT FAR ENOUGH DOWN THE PATH.

It’s all around me. The evidence, that is.

The evidence of passing time. I mean, of course my kids are growing up. That’s what we want. That’s what we expect. But somehow, I guess I figured maybe THEY could grow older and I could stay the same. I still mostly feel the same. I think I feel frozen at about 30. I mean, kind of. Until I look in the mirror and see WRINKLES. Or when I look at my own hands and see my mom’s hands instead. Of course other evidence is piling up too. The inability to operate on so little sleep. The forgetfulness. Where are my keys? Have you seen my phone? I signed up to go where? I agreed to do what? How do you spell that word? The hot flashes and the perimenopause which is just another word for getting old and being uncomfortable and having to just DEAL WITH IT.

I have one daughter who is about to be a SENIOR IN HIGH SCHOOL. One daughter who is already in her mid twenties and HAS THREE CHILDREN. My name is Honey to a couple of darling grandchildren. I HAVE GRANDCHILDREN.

The truth is – I feel unprepared to be what is likely more than halfway through my life.

A couple we know celebrated half a century or more in their marriage and that’s my entire life. And as I was marveling out loud at the longevity of their marriage my absolutely insensitive teenage son said to me, “It’s too late for you to be married to anyone for fifty years now, isn’t it?”

GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN, CHILD.

Yes, it’s too late. But do you have speak it OUT LOUD???

This is where I am. On a crash course with the fate that is waiting for every one of us – if we are fortunate, of course. (And I know that the reality of getting old is the best alternative I have. I pick it, of course. I am grateful for the opportunity. BUT JUST LET ME HAVE MY MOMENT OF COMPLAINING.)

So – in case you are curious, I am turning 47 next month. That gives me a very short window of time apparently to open some retirement savings plan, to purchase a second home, to miraculously erase the wrinkles from my neck. (My neck, you guys. WHY do wrinkles form on one’s neck??) To practice more yoga so I can be at my most flexible when menopause hits me solidly in the face. To get married so I can maybe eek out 20 years of wedded bliss.

Eh, scratch all that. I’m probably just going to spend my Friday nights happily alone, watch my wrinkles form larger and more accentuated wrinkles, plan a vacation instead of buying a beach house and purchase clothes that are more flowing so I can embrace the middle age spread and dish up a bowl of homemade ice cream.

And tell my daughter to get her calendar straight!

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