So... I recently turned fifty. And by recently I mean two years, three months, eight days, seven hours, and like thirty-five minutes, give or take a few minutes. But it’s literally taken me that long for reality to sink in. How is it even possible I’ve been alive for more than half a century? And if turning fifty wasn’t bad enough, now AARP is stalking me like Hogwarts stalked Harry Potter leading up to his eleventh birthday.
Listen up, AARP... Stop writing me! Stop offering me your services! STOP CHANGING THE ENVELOPES TO FOOL ME INTO OPENING THEM! If I have to burn every piece of unidentifiable mail, I will, because for the last damn time, I am NOT old enough to join freaking AARP! Take a hint, already!
The thing is, I don’t feel fifty. Well, maybe first thing in the morning when I roll out of bed to let the dogs out. It takes me a few minutes to work out the kinks, so I kinda feel fifty then. My knees do, anyway. Thankfully, I don’t look fifty—honest, I don’t—and let’s face it, I sure as hell don’t act fifty. Just ask my husband if you don’t believe me. If you were to average my actual age with the age I look at a glance, make that a quick glance, with the age I act—which, most of the time, is roughly that of a 12-year-old boy—I’m barely twenty-eight.
And yet, my seventy-four-year-old father puts me to shame. My stepmother tells me they went orienteering this weekend, and not only did Dad make it to the top of every mountain, but he beat everyone in their group, most of which are like twenty or more years younger than he is! When he’s not climbing mountains like a billy goat, he drives race cars, races bicycles in the senior games, and at the age of seventy-something, he took up marathon running. Of course he got a medal in his first race. And then he ran a two-hundred mile Ragnar relay... thirty-six hours of non-stop running! Rain or shine, he runs several miles every single day. The only place I run is at the mouth. Oh, and to the bathroom. For some reason I have to pee every time I dial my phone. I’d like to know who put that little curse on me.
Speaking of curses...
The only benefit I can see to turning fifty is an end to the bloody reign of the mighty uterus. Well, I’m uh, over fifty now, and that bitch won’t leave!
I went four glorious months without the slightest peep out of her. I was certain the harpy was finally gone for good... just a shriveled memory of my child bearing years. But no. In a cruel twist of fate, she decided to come back from whatever hole she was hiding in and unpacked all her bags for a long ass stay. And this time, the bitch brought friends! And let me tell you, she hasn’t accepted being fifty either. My not-so-friendly uterus has caught her second wind, living life like a drunken sorority girl. I don’t mind so much on her beer days, when she’s slumped over in a corner mumbling incomprehensible nonsense and drooling on herself, but God help me, if it’s Margarita Monday, I’m in some seriously deep shit. That hussy and her drunken buddies shriek “Woohoo!” at the top of their lungs, non-stop, while shooting confetti into the air with rocket launchers.
After five weeks—FIVE LONG, GRUELING, MISERABLE WEEKS of spring break in Uterusville, I’m just about ready to take my doctor up on her offer to smoke that bitch out. I’m pretty sure I could’ve died... all because of her thoughtless party-all-the-time attitude. It’s a wonder the damn thing hasn’t fallen out by now!
So if you’re listening, uterus, I only have one thing to say to you... fuck you and the ovaries you rode in on!
As for the rest of being fifty, the jury is still out. I guess I’ll keep getting older. Like my dad always says… the alternative really isn’t a viable option.
Until the next time… I’ll be watching old episodes of Matlock and Murder She Wrote with a cup of warm milk and a healthy dose of Metamucil.