I turned 50.
It wasn’t the big deal I had made it out to be in my mind.
My body did not, contrary to my expectations, spontaneously shrivel and die at midnight.
I slept like a 49-year old and woke up feeling a bit smug that I had moved into a new phase in my life.
When I danced around the kitchen singing happy birthday to myself, Murphy the wonder-pup danced around my feet as though he were celebrating with me. Either that or he was doggy-praying that I would calm down and act my age.
I felt a sense of empowerment as I drove to work knowing that, on this day, I was half a century old.
I nearly depressed myself with the empowering thoughts because 50 sounds so much better than half a century. Ugly crying wasn’t an option so half a century turned into two fourths of one.
50 was starting to sound exciting,
Half a century sounded like it belonged in the back basement corner of a now-defunct museum.
During my drive to work, my mind, as it usually does, began to wander. I started down the broken road of things I would change, but decided unless it was my bed linens or the time on my watch, it wasn’t worth wasting my thoughts on.
I doubt there is a person on earth who wouldn’t change things if they could, but since the time machine hasn’t yet been perfected, it would be a mute point.
Mute.
So I sang happy birthday to myself again as I drove along and gave thanks to God that He let me have another trip around the sun.
I’m 50 and proud of it.
I can’t say I’m all that thrilled about the AARP mail, but I did like the look of that free backpack.
A Photographer's Heart 