The big Five-OH hit me square in the face this past May. I threw myself a big party and all my friends (some over fifty – some under) came bearing cards that joked about this benchmark. I took it well…under the influence of peach martinis. It wasn’t until the dust settled and the caterer hauled away the last fork that it took hold. My first reaction was to look in the mirror to survey the damage.  

I stripped down to my birthday suit and here’s what I saw. Things have dropped. My once full and perky boobs are still full, but not so perky. I’m about ten pounds over weight. Disappointing, but nothing the gym and I can’t combat, except that my ass has flattened and is no longer attached to my lower back. My face, well there’s no where to go but wrinkleville. The skin has loosened slightly, the creases are getting deeper, the eye lids are beginning to hallow and droop. What used to be cute dimples are now one-inch long indents. My nose seems to be narrower and slightly longer (my ears thank God have not grown like my Grandmother’s, whose lobes could be tucked into her pants.) I’ve staved off chicken neck syndrome – thanks to ball caps and sunscreen, but my hair insists on growing in silver and not the sexy six week dye job color of chestnut brown.  At the end of my arm I found my mothers hand, and also saw I oddly resemble her from most angles. My legs are lean, yet the area around the knees is saggy and…OMG I have knee wrinkles! On the upside I’m practically hairless and only need to shave my legs once a month.

As far as my disposition and menopause, I’m good.  And this is where the rubber meets the road. Mentally I’m still twenty nine, my favorite age. When I dream I’m not a fifty year old woman – I’m a vital young athletic version of my younger self. When I shop I gravitate to clothing that looks stupid on me. When I buy music it’s still loud and “rock’n”. My sneakers are cooler than the kids next door. I ride a motor cycle (well not really a cycle – it’s a Vespa), but I feel like a bad ass and continue to sport my Harley leather jacket. 

So, what’s a fifty year old to do when she only feels twenty nine? Ignore the odd stares when I show up wearing shredded jeans and trendy t-shirts buy True Religion or acquiesce and by stretch pants and cardigan sweaters? I think, based on my inner Bohemian spirit, I’m more apt to choose to say “screw’m” and keep doing whatever I want. Ha! 

Cheers! To acting as young as you feel!