The Big Five Oh

I’ve been feeling kind of edgy lately. Like PMS crabby, but with no P and no M. And I can’t exactly put my finger on why. Oh no. Is this my mid-life crisis? I didn’t live for fifty whole years just to become a cliche. Fuck that. I’m not exactly sure what I expected to happen when I hit 50, but I’m about nine months in, and so far it’s been a bit of a dud. Maybe I should go out and buy a sports car? Or is that only for middle-aged men? I think us women are supposed to get facelifts to stave off existential dread. Actually, that probably hurts. I’ll pass. All I know is I’ve got to shake this lingering sense of “blah” that’s come over me before I take on 51. 

Day one of my 50th year was great. My sister had snuck into town the night before as a birthday surprise, and she and I, along with my husband and daughter, went out for a fabulous brunch. God, I love brunch. Then we did some shopping at my favorite little spice shop that gives you a free spice for your birthday. Free birthday items from various retailers are my favorite. It’s a whole thing. And finally, I ended the day on a high note, as my husband and two of my dearest friends threw me a big old party. So many of my favorite people were there. I felt very loved. I haven’t had a birthday party since I was a kid, so it truly warmed my heart. I strutted around wearing my “I’m 50, bitches!” sash, and grinned for pictures in front of the “Holy Shit, You’re 50!” banner. My husband gave a lovely speech. It was wonderful. So there I was, on day two, full of good will and good intentions, and then my toilet overflowed all over the bathroom floor, and I lost my shit. Pun intended. Things sort of kept going south from there. 

I swear I went into this birthday with a positive attitude. Throughout my 49th year-as I stared down the barrel of THE BIG FIVE OH-I kept myself busy with a delightful little mantra, affirming that I would be “in the best shape of my life” at age 50. I picked a grandiose, albeit delightfully vague goal for myself that was definitely not in line with the SMART goal format that I had been trained to use as a health coach…even the timeline was blurry. Did I expect to literally attain the best shape of my life on July 20th, 2024, or did I have the whole year to get it right? Fuck if I know. I guess I just pictured myself happier, thinner, stronger and on some kind of path to find my true purpose. No pressure. So now I’m asking myself, is 50 even an angst-worthy milestone? Or is it just my new scary age?

Fans of the show Sex and the City will remember a conversation between two of the main characters during which they discuss their fear of aging, and reveal their “scary age” to each other. This was the arbitrary number they chose to mark when they officially became old. It’s funny, mine has changed over the years. My first scary age was 16, if you can believe that. Not because I actually thought I was old, but John Cougar Mellencamp advised me in his song “Jack and Diane” that I should hold on to 16 as long as I could, because before I knew it I would be an adult. This was a sobering thought at 15. My second scary age was 35. This may sound arbitrary, but I see it as the last milestone before retirement. Once you reach this age you could now finally run for president. That’s very serious. Like oh shit, now I’m really an adult, serious. Once I got there I was actually fine. I was married, I had just graduated college (shut up, I’m a late bloomer), and I didn’t even want to be president. From then on, I wasn’t really worried about my age. For years it was just a number. But there’s something about 50…It comes with a nagging bit of urgency. I know it’s silly but it feels like time is running out to get my shit together. It’s not one of those glamorous “hey, you’re finally able to vote, drink, or rent a car” kind of milestones. For most of us 50 means you’ve got more years behind you than ahead of you. Unless, of course, you live in a Blue Zone and will live well past 100 thanks to all that fresh air and olive oil. I know I’m still relatively young, but I’m starting to get a glimpse of what old age might be like, and nope, I don’t love it. Something always hurts. Overall I’ve held up okay over the years, but damn if my neck isn’t looking old these days. And my hands. I just try not to look. Definitely not feeling as #fitfab50 as I would have hoped. But what did I actually expect? 

If I’m being honest, I think I was hoping to finally use up my last fuck. As in middle fingers up in the air, telling the world that I no longer care what you bitches think of me as I catapult into a new phase of mid-life confidence hard won from half a century of living. For some reason in this fantasy I’m leaning out of the cab of a pickup truck. Okay, so maybe you don’t wake up on day one suddenly all wise and self-assured, but I was hoping to have answered at least some of life’s most difficult questions by now. Who am I? What is the meaning of life? Will I ever figure out how to open those plastic vegetable bags at the grocery store without being filled with rage? 

All kidding aside, I don’t actually worry too much about what people think any more. Not like I used to. I’m fairly sure that I’m a decent, thoughtful, relatively literate person who some may even consider mildly amusing. And as far as looks are concerned? I still clean up fairly nicely, and Invisible Woman Syndrome takes care of the rest. When I was a teenager I had to do full hair and makeup every single time I left the house. And my showers took like 30 minutes. I’m not kidding. WTF was I doing in there? You know how shampoo bottles used to have instructions? Shampoo, rinse, repeat? Well I’m pretty sure I followed that guidance for my whole body. I can joke about it now, but it annoyed the shit out of everybody and honestly, it was pretty sad. My self esteem was so low that I think I was trying to scrub off the ugly. So no, it’s not that bad any more. My showers are like five minutes long. Eight if I’m being really fancy. I guess I thought that somehow all insecurity would just go poof! and disappear once I reached middle age. Not the case. 

By the way, whatever stage of menopause I’m in is kicking my ass. I don’t really know what’s up because I’m scared to stop taking the pill and wean off the synthetic hormones they provide to find out. I forgot to take them for a week recently and, holy crap, I was a mess. My memory and moods are fluctuating like crazy. I can’t sleep for shit, and I’m always kind of flustered. It’s a lot like being pregnant, but without the happy ending. I mean, I know that I’ve killed a lot of brain cells in my life, but my God. How many times a day can one person walk into a room and forget why? I’ve always had a crappy memory, but this is becoming concerning. And when you finally break down and ask a doctor for some advice about how to deal with the brain fog and insane mood swings? <cricket cricket> My male GP suggested that I do sudoku puzzles. I shared that with my female gynecologist, and we all had a good laugh, but she didn’t have anything for me either. It’s like being trapped in the black and white part of the infomercial: there’s got to be a better way! I’ll just be over here taking magnesium and hoping for the best. 

So here I am: unemployed, overweight, and not exactly feeling impressive for a fifty year old lady. Some days I am just fine and other times I feel like I’m barely hanging on to my last good nerve. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for my life, and I know I have it better than a lot of people. I don’t get a paycheck at the moment, but I am responsible for a lot of visible and invisible things in my family’s life, and despite my failing memory I’m doing a pretty good job. I take pride in that. In some ways I have a lot of freedom. For the most part I am able to structure my days the way I see fit. I can take a hermit day if necessary. But sometimes I feel like the main character in my favorite movie, The Graduate, when he is talking about his future and says “I just want it to be…different.” 

For now I’m going to focus on trying to spread some positivity in a world that feels pretty hostile and chaotic at the moment. I will continue to be diligent with my own self-care, and share what works and what doesn’t with whoever will listen. I will write. I will post shit on social media. I will come up with “content” that I think will do some good. And yes, I’m going to start all this at age 50. Like LL Cool J says, DDHD: Dreams Don’t Have Deadlines. Your passions, and the things that give your life meaning don’t have a fixed start or end time. So yeah, maybe middle age isn’t so bad. Plus, I gotta admit I do like saying I'm 50. It's like a badge of honor. Look at me! I’m a big girl!  Do I wish more people would look surprised and say “no, really?” when I share my age? Sure, but I’m not losing any sleep over it.