Fifty

It’s my birthday, again. Said with hesitant glee.

I remember approaching ‘the big 5-0’ and I had a doctor appointment. To begin the appointment, the assistant had me step on the scale. Never a pleasant activity as my scale at home likes me better. The doctor’s scale is ALWAYS wrong, I believed.

Then, she measured my height. She said I had shrunk and no longer the 5’8” that I depended on for seeing over the steering wheel of my car.

She seemed to blurt out to the whole office that I had shrunk to 7’5” and follow that up with ‘that’s normal as you age’. Did she think that was comforting? I’m shrinking ‘normally’?

I didn’t think that 49 years old was considered aging but every year older is aging, is it not?

At this point I did not care about my weight, because I was shrinking at alarming rate it seems! Will I spread out like a prairie as I get wider and shorter?

I asked, no, demanded, that she remeasure my height. I stood up as straight as I could, poofed up my naturally curly hair hoping a few big curls could get me to the top. Nope. 7’5”.

Then came 50. Do I pluck or do I wax? I soon graduated from tweezers to a battery-operated women’s grooming device to eliminate the tiny little hairs on the corners of my smile. My smile, scarce during my fifties. I kicked and screamed as I ‘turned fifty’. Got myself a library card and thought my life was over.

I’m now in my ‘late’ sixties and just turning fifty. Realizing ‘optimistically’ some have pointed out, that I’m halfway there. I think I can reach 100 years old. Not sure how tall I’ll be.