Only Other People Turn 50

I know how to count, 45… 50. I’ve been counting 50 for a few years. 50 is coming… 50 is coming… warning… 50 is closer than you think. But, in spite of that, when I see something for people who are turning 50 or 50 plus, I don’t think it’s about me. Only other people turn 50, not me.

I remember my Dad’s 50th birthday party. We gave him a home party with a bowl full of colourful Jello to smush his feet into. Dad was the grumpy sort, it really didn’t have much to do with being 50, he was mostly that way. But, I remember making all that Jello with my Mom. I remember my Mom had read about the idea somewhere, as a great way to relieve stress or tension. He finally did put his feet in the Jello, and he liked it. I don’t want Jello for my 50th birthday. I may be going crazy but I haven’t been grumpy about it.

There is the other part of turning 50… the birthday. You know people aren’t so likely to forget or ignore it. I don’t think I’d like it if they did. Quite… exactly… Other than not wanting Jello; I don’t know what I do want. Nothing… and yet, something. So am leaving that to procrastinate on later. I have until December after all.

Turning 50 has been on my mind since I turned 46, if not before. If you haven’t become a grown up, done the things you wanted to do, by the time you are 50… you only have another 10 years until you are old. I feel like I’m hanging onto a shelf, my legs dangling below me reaching for a ledge I can’t see or touch with my toes. I can let go of the ledge and trust I will land on another ledge below or I can let go of the ledge and fall a very long, long way. I tend to get that sick feeling of not having faith in the ledge below me when I think about turning 50.

Anyway, I thought I could write something about it. Likely someone else is turning 50, somewhere on the planet. Good luck and happy birthday when the time comes.