Disturbing trends since turning 50

I am becoming more and more easily impressed by physical activity I am engaged in. Look at me, I'm raking the leaves. Aren't I something, I'm walking up one flight of stairs instead of taking the elevator. I'm climbing up this ladder just like a young person. Wow, I'm walking so briskly up this hill I can feel my leg muscles working (oh god, could this give me a heart attack?)

When I bend over, I can feel my face pull away from my skull.

I don’t know of one baseball, football, tennis, or basketball player who is as old as I am. A couple of golfers maybe. Although they’re probably on the Senior Circuit.

I no longer recognize names of celebrities. This is not such a bad thing.

I find it increasingly difficult to complete a sentence without using generic words like “thing”, “stuff”, “place”, “guy”. As in “Who was that guy at that place who told us to use some kind of stuff to make that thing?” Okay it’s not that bad but I’m well on my way.

Sometimes I use my fingers to check my math.

I can no longer “pop” off the floor in one, quick motion. Now it takes about four separate moves.

At this rate, it won’t be long before my pinky toenail eventually disappears altogether.

Periodically I test my husband on where I want my ashes tossed.

I also test him on signs of a stroke.

Forgetting something makes me wonder if I’m in the early states of Alzheimer’s.

Any unexplained pain makes me think:  tumor.

I’m warming up to loafers and elastic-waste pants.

I want to wear turtlenecks even in the summer.

Cruises are sounding appealing.

Doctors used to be old. Today my family physician is so young and adorable I want to pinch her cheeks.

Running is reserved for crossing the road where a serious attempt has to be made to avoid being crushed by a bus.

I’m certain incontinence products are in my future.

I used to ponder things like, would I rather be rich or pretty, smart or funny, be able to sing or play an instrument. Now I ponder, do I want my body to be cremated or donated to science

What is going on with my neck? I've got enough extra skin to cover a football.

The Big 5-0

The big event for me a couple of years ago was turning 50. Turning 50. 50. I’m 50. Holy cow. Although turning 50 is still pretty weird, it has given me a little attitude that’s been fun. Like, I’m going to eat this remaining half a cherry pie for dinner – cuz I’m 50! Or, I’m going to pluck this whisker out of my chin right here in the car in Meijer’s parking lot instead of waiting to go home behind closed doors – cuz I’m 50! And I say these things to myself using the voice of Edgar G. Robinson. “That’s right, I’m 50 see, yeah 50.” On the other hand, 50 has brought on a disturbing trend. I’ve started to drool. Not a bucket full. Just a drop. On more than one occasion. On several occasions in fact. I don’t know if salivary glands work harder as you get older or I’m just standing around with my mouth hanging open. This is upsetting for a couple of reasons. I thought that drooling wouldn’t happen until, you know, I was OLD. Not 50! Also, it’s resulted in a diminishing of my arguing-with-your-spouse arsenal. Geoff has always been a drooler. I often catch him choking on his own spit. You should see his pillow in the morning. So you see, sometimes it comes in handy to be able to come back with “yeah, well at least I don’t drool on your head”. But now, do I? And here’s another thing. I can’t seem to stop thinking about dying. I keep thinking, “what if I’m old and on my own but have a pet or a few farm animals or whatever and I drop dead and no one knows it?” What if it’s several weeks before the neighbor boys think “hey, we haven’t seen that crazy old drooling lady with the goat lately, maybe we should see if she’s still alive”? What a site they could walk into! Sure, sure, if I’m dead, what do I care? But I’m not exactly dead yet so, you know, I worry.