Friday, April 20, 2007
Late thirties. Really late.
B and I are reading the weekend paper in what we call the reading room. Which is simply our bedroom on a Sunday morning. There are three animals on the bed with us, a special Sunday morning treat. Normally they are not allowed. Not the dogs anyway, the cats know no rules. I have Snuffy the cat curled up in my lap, Henry warming my toes, a cup of strong tea at hand, and the local news section of the paper.
Suddenly my bliss is shattered.
"No freakin' way!" I say to B.
"Centennial House Seniors' old timers softball league is looking for players."
"Old farts playing softball? What's wrong with that?" asks B.
"No, you don't understand," I wail. "I QUALIFY!"
There it is in black and white. The newspaper ad says that women who will be 50 years old any time in 2007 are eligible. (While men have to be 55. WTF? Women are old timers at 50, but men not so much?)
It hits me like a meteor. A real "holy shit" moment. I will be, gasp, 50 this year. Not for a few months yet, but it is approaching like a runaway train. Of course, I can count, and I have been aware of this coming birthday for, well, almost 50 years. But apparently I have been cruising down De Nile River. I can only blame myself for that. I never went through my forties. Because when I turned forty I told people I was in my late thirties. Then I would coyly say, "thirty-ten." (Actually, I didn't always add that last bit.) The next year I was thirty-eleven. It was funny. Even when I was saying I was thirty-fifteen it got an occasional chuckle. I should have dropped it then, because telling people "I am in my late thirties wink thirty-nineteen," is pathetic.
So, note to self: Chin up, attitude check, embrace reality. Embrace 50. Maybe even join the old timers softball league. But wait, I can't throw or catch a ball.
Today's dream travel destination: Rio de Janeiro. Where facelifts are cheap, and everybody does it. Because soon I will be thirty-twenty.