I suppose I should've changed the title of my blog but I didn't. Forty-nine... fifty, fifty-one, sixty-one... I don't think it much matters anymore. I've arrived at a place in my life where I don't put up with irrelevancy (among other things for which I have no patience) and age, at some point, is irrelevant. It's irrelevant in the respect that once you've reached the age at which your parents previously seemed old, the exact number no longer matters. Maybe it matters to actuaries, but not to me.
The love of my life is turning sixty-one this week and not happily. He worries a little bit about being ten years older than I am. I guess in some perverse way I like that he's older because it makes me feel younger kind of in the same way that hanging out in a Walmart in Wisconsin makes me feel thinner. Really, though, I've always had a thing for older men and he is fantastically sexy and nothing makes me happier than to be seen on his arm.
The nice thing about fifty is that I'm doing what I want. Mostly. I'm writing. I go out. I spend time with my friends - and my kids when they'll have me.
When I was about thirteen I asked my grandpa how it felt to be old. He said he didn't feel any different than when he was thirteen except he didn't recognize the old guy in the mirror. I can relate except that I
do recognize the old woman in the mirror. It's my mom.
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