|Me, beading at Sculpterra.|
Not surprisingly, that one made it into family legend. And thus started my precarious relationship with half-decades.
Fast forward to age 15: now, that was another big-anticipation year. In my mind, I was no longer a kid at 15. How could I be? Magical 16 was up next, and I knew my whole life was going to change. I would find a boyfriend, stop being so shy and insecure, and finally learn how to be popular.
Erm, not. But it was a nice thought.
25, and the sudden realization that I'd passed a quarter-century on earth. How could I have felt so old when I was so young? Looking back, I can't understand why I felt that way, but I did. I had been married for two years by then, and thought that this was how the rest of my life would be. Luckily, I felt much younger by the time I turned 35; options are a nice thing to have.
35 was a fabulous year. I discovered that I had choices; I realized that I wasn't nearly as old as I thought I was, and I started over. I got out of a bad marriage, opened up to friends, and found the love of my life. Can't beat that; the fives were finally on my side.
45 was a blur. I was homeschooling my kids, and we spent 6 months of that year living in the UK. It was an exciting time, and a birthday without any real emotional baggage to carry. I hit that five and cruised on by without even really thinking about it.
And now I'm facing the big 5-5. It's been a strange run-up to it: this January I suddenly decided to stop coloring my hair and let the grey grow out (I started going noticeably grey in my 20s, so hair color and I have been a team for three decades now) and I'm trying to be comfortable with the fact that my original weight loss goal may have been just a wee bit unrealistic, and I'm probably not getting my 20-year old body back.
I'm trying to be realistic about it, but failing pretty miserably. I don't feel slightly plump and grey-heaired; I still feel trim and blonde. But I'm going to be 55 this year! First-level senior citizen! I am not a hottie anymore, and I resent like hell that I didn't even know I was hot when I was!
(And I don't want to hear a word from 60-somethings; I know I'm not as old as you, and I know you're handling it better. This is my whinge, and I mean to have it.)
Oddly, now that I've written this, I feel a whole lot better. I can laugh at myself now that it's out in the open; I'm hoping that the free-floating misery that has been dogging me will go away now and let me enjoy these last three weeks of being not-55. Here's to grey hair and a pouf-y tummy.
Maybe being 55 won't be so bad.