Celebrating 50

In a matter of days, I turn 50. That number seems so big – not ancient – but certainly not insignificant. In the past, people used to think I looked much younger. I don’t think that’s the case anymore. I honestly don’t know what 50 is supposed to look like.

Everybody has a birthday, so my turning 50 is no more important than my daughter turning 25, or my nephew turning 15. Birthdays are really a very personal thing. It’s not up to the rest of the world to do a happy dance and lavish me with gifts because I’m one year older. It’s up to me how or if I want to celebrate. To mark my half-century of life, I’m finally going to Europe. There, I’ll see my step-daughter in the UK. On my actual birthday, I’m flying to Paris to see a friend who lives in France.

When I tell people my age, some flinch – as though I’ve asked if they want to see my scars from surgery. It’s as if I’m providing too much information. I don’t walze into a room and announce, “Hey, PEOPLE, I’m turning 50!” I just don’t avoid talking about my age.

I think our society has a long way to go before the majority of us accept getting older. But getting older does not mean we have to rot on the vine. I know I’ll have to work that much harder this next phase of my life to stay healthy and in decent shape, but I’m determined to prove that turning 50 means we're just getting started….