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.