That’s what my brain said to my body the morning of my 50th birthday.
Most of the time, it’s hard to remember I’m half a century old. It’s hell to have peach fuzz on my brain and above my upper lip.
Sure, a lot has changed over the years.
In 1963, a hamburger, fries and a coke from McDonald’s cost 45 cents. A gallon of gas cost 26 cents and a pack of Lucky Strikes cigarettes cost 20 cents. Jan and Dean were at the top of the charts with a squeaky-clean beach hit, “Surf City USA.”
Now, fast food and cigarettes are on the death list, a full tank of gas costs a week’s pay in 1963 and Robin Thick is at the top of the Billboard chart with a catchy misogynistic tune that requires censoring.
My, how times have changed.
When the young neighbor stops and smiles as he picks up his Sunday morning paper it’s more of a “She reminds me of my Great Aunt Ruth” glance instead of a “Hey, it’s that hot MILF from up the street” sighting.
Still, something happened when that 50 switch turned on. It’s like a big power-surge of all the knowledge I’ve gained from living 50 years on earth. A Phoenix rising from the ashes…the sun peering out of a dense, gray fog…
That’s right, my boobs dropped and my brain grew!
Yes! I’m finally smart enough to have a pair of readers in every room.
Who knew despite a memory that may be getting slightly more fuzzy, orthopedic sensible shoes are now flanking a powerhouse of confidence, keen insight and great wisdom.
I’ve endured vegetable Jello molds from the 60’s, itchy polyester from the 70’s, bad perms from the 80’s, scrunchies from the 90’s and digital over-drive from the 2000’s.
I miraculously dropped my last egg, gave birth and mastered menopause in the same decade.
I am woman, hear me roar – and sweat and cry and roar some more!
According to my tween daughter, I’m now resourceful.
“Hey mom, we need to use your old-lady AARP card at the arcade so we can get a discount and play more games.”
To celebrate the big day, my sisters and my mom treated me to a fancy lunch and a facial. Though I think the facial was a ruse to discreetly have the peach fuzz waxed over my lip.
My sister-in-law sent me a lovely fruit basket with the numbers 2 and 1 carved out in pineapple.
Yet when it comes right down to it, I’d rather be 50 than 21. That is, I’d rather have my mind at 50 with my ass at 21.