Yesterday was the day after I turned ffff....ffff....FIFTY. Maybe if I say this fifty more times for the next fifty years, I will get used to it. Twenty was welcomed, thirty was tolerable, forty was terrifying, but fifty is just plain wrong. Yes, it's better than the alternative - meaning the grave, better than Alzheimer's, better than chemo, but I'm not sure it's better than a root canal and it's only slightly better than a mouthful of dentures.
The day after I turned fifty, I deliberately dropped things all day long to prove that I could still bend down without having to be put into traction. I did a few kickboxing moves and was still able to walk around the house without crutches. I spent more time than usual in front of the mirror looking for signs of fifty. I still think I look like thirty or thirty eight, but certainly not FIFTY. Of course, I don't really know what fifty looks like, especially since my cataracts have recently worsened, causing excessive blurring of distance and near vision. It's especially confusing to be fifty when emotionally I feel like twelve. Perhaps I can trick my mind into acting twenty while trying to find ways to look twenty eight, all the while praying for my body to move like it was thirty five. And just when I thought I might be prematurely worrying about falling apart just because I turned fifty, I was suddenly struck by intense upper and mid back pain - probably a delayed reaction from the previous activities I did the day after I turned fifty to prove that I was still nimble and mobile.
It's been two days since I turned half a century and I'm starting to feel adjusted. Either I'm coping amazingly well or I am suffering memory loss and have forgotten that I've turned fifty. Menopause has crept up on me over the years, but somehow it seemed to know exactly when I turned fifty as I am currently experiencing sweaty palms and bouts of dizziness. But, I can still remember my first boyfriend. So, here's hoping for menopause to continue wreaking havoc on memory input.
