I just turned 50 the other day. I haven't had anyone ask me that question yet. "How old are you Mrs. Scudder?" Ooh . . . When they do I will probably look like my little weenie dog does when he is startled by a loud noise. He suddenly does a cat-like move and all the hairs stand up on his back. Either that or I'll faint dead out.
50. The big kahuna. Half of a hundred. The angel on my right shoulder says, "50, it's just a number, life starts now, it'll be fun." The devil on my left shoulder tells me, "It's arthritis, knee replacements, liver spots. I mean it's enough just trying to deal with these young children calling me m'am." When did I become a m'am? Am I not a girl anymore? How did that little girl who looks like she is in grade school get a job filling my prescriptions anyway? (Drugs that I have to take now to keep my hormones in balance making my husband and children able to live with me.) When did Doogie Houser go from being a t.v. show to reality? A 10 year old (or so it seemed) came and wanted to go over my x-ray with me. I wanted to know why a candy striper wanted to look at my x-rays. He said, "I'm your cardiologist, m'am. Kind of made me glad I've eaten enough fast food over the years to clog up things so I can help old Doogie with his allowance.
Then I got Doogie's bill in the mail. Now that made my heart hurt. I called his office to see if this could possibly be correct. It was the price of a nice size vacation home. Ok, not anywhere big, but maybe at Lake Norfork. His office said the bill was correct. She said it would have been cheaper if you would have signed up for that AARP supplement that you got in the mail when you turned . . . Oh, you did turn 50 didn't you Mrs. Scudder?
One thing I want to know for sure: Is turning 50 going to keep getting better and better and more interesting every day? Yes, m'am, it just has to.