THIS IS FIFTY

Michael said when he woke up on his fiftieth birthday, he felt fifty. I woke up Tuesday on my fiftieth birthday, feeling like a sick little kid with a sore throat and a headache. Melissa dropped off a box of birthday macarons. So I spent the day in a cold medicine haze on the couch, eating macarons. All in all, maybe not such bad way to spend a birthday. I treated myself to two sick days. On the second day, I finally took a shower and started feeling less little kid sick and maybe more my actual age?

People make such a big deal about so called milestone birthdays. Sweet sixteen. Twenty one shots for your twenty first. Dirty Thirty. Actually…I’m not so sure what dirty thirty means or is all about and I’m not clear on forty. Like forty is the milestone we sneak through because our forties are so heavy with adulting. In my case, I’d already done some heavy lifting adulting in my thirties. So forty was just more of the same. Fifty is the threshold, too old for childish things. Except, eventually we’ll be retirement age and just the right age for nothing but childish things.

My birthday has never really been a big deal for me. It has always felt overshadowed. Inaugurations. Christmas hangovers. Dying husbands. Knowing that this year would be fifty, I spent a number of hours in 2025 contemplating what turning fifty means to me. I’ve grasped ahold of some idea that fifty should mean something; feel different. Like I should have woken up wiser and sophisticated with age. Instead, I woke up achy and feverish and definitely not in the mood for deciding any feelings about turning fifty.

I think I can finally spend a moment to reflect on turning the big fifty and here’s the thing. It’s nothing. It’s just another year, like turning thirty or forty. I don’t feel older or wiser. I don’t feel suddenly enlightened. I feel the same as I did last week, but with a head cold. Someone said to me “Fifty! You’re half way there!” and I laughed. Maybe fifty is my ‘middle’ age even though my genetic history says otherwise. I still want the same things for myself as I did in my thirties and forties. Travel and shenanigans. Roller skating and bike rides. Last week, everyone was revisiting 2016 and as I gathered pictures to join in, I noticed there was a lot more whimsy in life in 2016. Have I lost whimsy because I’m now fifty? That’s not true. Whimsy has been missing for some time now.

My friend, Deborah sent me a text welcoming me to my ‘feral fifties’ and I think ‘feral’ is a perfect description for turning fifty.

fe-ral:

(especially of an animal) in a wild state, especially after escape from captivity or domestication. - Oxford Dictionary

I’ve been held captive by the adulting of my forties and now I’m ready to run wild. I can’t say that turning fifty changed my state of mind. I was already in a zero fucks to give place. Now, I no longer give zero fucks but I do what I want. Last week I bought a very pink, not so practical, dress because I’ve been eyeing it and it was on sale. Will I be wearing it with boots and leggings this week? Of course I will. I took two sick days this week when I’m usually “oh, no, really….I must go to work. Cough cough cough.” Micheal accidentally broke my gin teacup and I ordered a replacement from a not so sure website. My credit card was stolen, but it’s been replaced and all is fixed. And I just got a notice that my new gin teacup is being shipped. I’ve been the most responsible human you’ve ever met and now I’m ready to be irresponsible.

I don’t know what irresponsibility is going to look like for me, but I sure hope it brings some whimsy back into my life.