In less than a month I will turn fifty years old. It's still hard for me to physically form that particular F word and urge it to leave my mouth. Writing it down seems much easier, maybe because it will seem more like a story...like it's happening to someone else.
The nice thing about turning fifty is that if you're suddenly afflicted with amnesia and can't remember your age, there are so many nice people who will be more than happy to remind you. AARP has more than likely killed one adult tree simply with the amount of invitations they have sent me, asking me to please become a member. They've even thrown in the offer of a free travel bag. I'm touched.
My doctor loves to remind me that my body is falling apart. My daughter finds a certain joy in pointing out sags, lumps, veins, and wrinkles. I like to remind her that the twenty-five hours I spent pushing her out of my body and into the world were pretty much the death knell on my size six figure. Oh well. Some people said I was too skinny back then, anyway.
So what am I doing, you ask? Who the heck cares if I'm turning fifty, or nineteen, or eighty-nine? It all seems a bit self-absorbed, doesn't it? Just trying to get my house in order, so to speak. I've been busy the past several weeks trying to get my home, my literal home, organized; throwing out old paperwork, packing up and giving old clothes and books to charity, scrubbing floors and washing windows.
Perhaps it's also time to get my physical and emotional house in order.
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