You know, I haven’t been real thrilled about turning 50, my “assigned number” for about the last 6 months. I admit, I had some problems initially adjusting to the ‘new era’ and all that. I nearly choked the first time I had to state my age at the doctor’s office… “F..f...f..if…uh..uh….fifty”. They probably thought I’d had a stroke.
You know, I haven’t been real thrilled about turning 50, my “assigned number” for about the last six months. I admit, I had some problems initially adjusting to the “new era” and all that. I nearly choked the first time I had to state my age at the doctor’s office… “F..f...f..if…uh..uh….fifty.” They probably thought I’d had a stroke.
But, I’m slowly getting O.K. with the idea of being 50. It’s better than the alternative, right? Actually, I’m beginning to see the beauty in being “of age.” Not that I didn’t see it before — my 40s were absolutely spectacular. But, as I continue to ponder my newfound seniority, I’m realizing that, you know what? I am a grown-ass, 50-year-old woman, and I can do whatever the crap I want. Better yet, I don’t have to do what I don’t want to do. I’m old enough to decide things for myself. I’ve raised two children and two husbands — and without killing any of them, I might add. Yes, I’ve paid my dues — hell, I’ve paid dues for clubs I never even joined. I quit Brownies at the age of 7 (without my mother’s permission) because there were too many rules. Somebody should’ve seen this coming.
I am just so tired of the “serving suggestions,” “recommended daily allowances” and all the other “guidelines” put in place to protect us from ourselves. Who decided this stuff, anyway? It was probably either a man, or somebody half my age. And I’m not scared of either one of them.
So, at this point in my life, and from this day forward, consider me a “Rebel Just Because." My own little passive-aggressive way of sticking my finger in the eye of social convention. And as part of the Official Rebellion Declaration festivities, I have formulated a list of things I will commit to do, effective immediately, as I begin my first term as Mayor of the Land of “Make Me.”
From now on, I solemnly swear to:
1. Go “In” the “Out” door at the grocery store
2. Refrigerate before opening.
3. Lather. Rinse. That’s it.
4. Eat tuna salad at a restaurant (or maybe it was just my mother who told me never to order anything with mayonnaise away from home because you’d get “ptomaine poisoning” – my great aunt Ida, apparently, got it in ’69 at the Democrat convention in a chicken a la king incident).
5. Wear blue socks with black shoes.
6. Use a salad fork to eat my entrée.
7. Apply the entire bottle of home hair color without first doing a test patch.
8. Operate machinery (like a blender, O.K.) before knowing how medication will affect me.
9. Refuse to "Hold on to the Bar.”
10. And I got news for them that if my husband gets an “erection that lasts more than four hours,” I am not calling a doctor.