Age is but a mere number. Story revised and hopefully better than ever. Please review!
| Take a walk on My 50th birthday side. I started stressing about turning 50 when I turned 49. Being that old was driving me insane because I thought that was it for me. I would never be that size 6 anymore – a size 16 was more like it. I was completely gray by the time I turned 40 but I had convinced myself that my long gray hair, now wiry from age, suited me just fine. My closest friends did try to tell me how much older I looked with the gray and, dummy me, went to the store and bought this out-of-the-box hair color. Didn’t do a thing except turn my hair neon green – I gave up on that idea real quick. Took about a year for the color to finally wash out. |
The dreaded day was approaching faster than I could slow it down. I thought, ok, I’ll just do something wild and zany for my birthday to get me through it. Skydiving? The speed of the descend is determined by your weight and I knew I would just lie about how much I really weighed. I would just plummet to the ground and there wouldn’t be enough of me left to bury. I thought I’d better just leave that one alone. Ok, then, Scuba Diving? Since I can’t swim a lick I thought I would just leave that one alone as well. Besides, knowing my luck, I would be attacked by some vicious creature and eaten alive.
It’s now two weeks before my birthday and I felt completed defeated. I’m done – nothing else to do that would be wild and zany. Oh, but what about my hair? Mmmm. What if I made an appointment with the beauty shop to get my hair colored? I made that appointment the very next day before I could change my mind and 4 ½ hours later I stepped out a new woman. My hair was this awesome golden brown and 10 inches shorter. I went to the mall and bought this over the top, drop dead gorgeous dress with matching heels walking into my office the next day sashaying my way in. Jaws dropped and heads turned – got a couple of whistles even. My head was getting so big it couldn’t fit through the door! I had achieved that wild and zany and I eating it up.
With all the commotion about my new hairdo I decided I needed a party to celebrate my 50th birthday, not shy away from it. I would own it, cherish, revel in it and not be defeated. I just plain decided it wasn’t going to get the best of me. I invited all my family and friends to help me enjoy my birthday and called it “Sara’s 50th Sock Hop Birthday Party”. I was really working it now.
My cousin, Ellen, and her young gay son, Josh, came in from Dallas, TX. My friends from work and my family all were attending this party - complete with bobby socks and poodle skirts. Josh is an absolutely wonderful young man and for him to attend a sock hop was an honor. That boy has more style about him than most women have in their little finger so his opinion of age and how I looked was important.
The day of the party, Ellen, Josh, my daughter Lori, and I were tooling around getting things ready for the party. I remarked that all my life I had wanted a tattoo. Not a big one, you understand, but a little thing only I could see. That’s all it took - the three of them hauled me down to the nearest tattoo parlor. We spent five hours waiting for our turn at the needle. We looked all over the walls of the different designs discussing what to get and exactly where to put it. We saw these humongous tigers with blood dripping from their teeth and skull heads with bows and arrows surrounding them – all had curvy lines doubling over each other. I really didn’t think that fit my idea of a tattoo especially on me.
It came my turn to sit in the chair. I had finally decided on a design and where to put it. Forget the tigers and skull heads, I wanted two tiny red hearts – one for my son and one for my daughter – right there on my left boob and I got it. It took 5 minutes for the two tattoos that took five hours waiting for. But it was worth it I guarantee you that.
I walked tall into that birthday party with all my friends and family. I showed off my boob to more people that I care to mention. We all danced the jitterbug, drank too much, and that was the best birthday I had ever had.
I tell you what, nowadays I don’t dread birthdays – I enjoy each and every one of them. Every time I look in the mirror and see my little tiny tattoos I realize that turning 50 wasn’t so bad after all. You don’t have to look nor act old because age is but a mere number. It seems now the older I get the bolder I get. Woman, hear me roar! Mark that down in your little daybook.
Until next time…..take a walk on My 50th birthday side.