It's now official -- I'm turning 50 this year and I've got a shiny new AARP card to validate me. WOW! The platinum streaks in my hair tell me I'm aging. The special glasses in every room tell me I'm aging. The pile of jeans I can no longer fit into tells me aging. And the list goes on. BUT what is not telling me I'm aging is my head, my heart, my soul.
I keep hearing the word "age appropriate" and wonder who decides what's appropriate for what age. A woman of a certain age should have this, wear this, do this, go here, feel this. What if I feel like I'm still 35, full of piss and vinegar and unfulfilled potential? Sometimes I'm that giddy 17-year old who kissed a tall, blonde boy in the cool green woods on a hot summer day. Other days, I remember that 40 and FABULOUS feeling that you can ride til you're dead.
Age doesn't really matter unless you're a cheese. I've always subscribed to that theory. So I've decided I'm going to charge right into my 50s with maybe just a teeny bit more dignity and a lot more of everything. For our 50th birthdays, my beloved and I are going skydiving. Who knows? I might even get a tattoo! A dragonfly on my right cheek just might be the thing to keep me going in my 90s!