It’s A NUMBER
Earlier this month, I experienced the joy that is the 50th birthday. Please note the sarcasm.
In the grand scheme of things, I couldn’t give a shit. Like any age, it’s a number. Granted, it’s a damn big number, but a number nonetheless. When you feel great, you have love in your life, and you have a future to look forward to, wrinkles and grey hair don’t even register on the radar. Well, maybe just a bit.
As the day approached, I was doing my best to ensure that I stuck with my tradition of treating it as Just Another Day. While I love to fuss over those I love, I prefer to keep my b-day quiet. It’s just one of those things. The fact that I was still stuck in the eastern part of the country while the love of my life was at home in the west didn’t help matters. I really, truly didn’t want anything to mark the day.
But of course, my darling siblings stuck to THEIR tradition of ignoring my wishes, and fussed. They can’t help it. I’m the youngest. Who the hell listens to the youngest?
So life got back to normal the day after, and I kind of didn’t give the “50” thing another thought. Until, of course, I arrived at the doctor’s office. I had been referred to a specialist to figure out why I was having navigation problems (aka being a spastic idiot) when I descended stairs. Going up was fine, going down, not so much. The problem has plagued me for about seven years, and my un-trained medical mind diagnosed the problem as everything from bone cancer to brain cancer to a good old fashioned sympathy stroke, taken on behalf of Contrary Mary. Turns out, it’s just arthritis.
Relieved that I could finally put a name to it (which will come in handy the next time someone cocks their head sideways as I come down the stairs and says “what’s up with THAT?”), the doctor proceeded to prescribe stuff. Lots of stuff. Everything from a series of shots to lubricate the joints ($400, not covered by Ontario Health) to orthopedic shoes ($400, not covered) to knee braces ($180, and you guessed it, not covered). He rhymed off a number of medications I could take, to which I responded “I’m 50 and medication-free. I’d rather put up with the stiffness and keep it that way.” The good doctor shrugged, and sent me on my way. There I was: 50, officially arthritic, and just as stubborn as I was at 49.
But again, it didn’t fizz on me for long. Until I talked to my friend Catharine. Miss C. had turned fifty four days before me, and was depressed. Flat-out depressed. This baffled me, as the girl seemed to me to have it all: She has always had a great job, a lovely home, and a terrific 14-year-old son. She also looks terrific. What’s not to like about the big 5-0? Unfortunately, Miss C was still down in the dumps.
She told me that she remembered how young her father seemed at 50. Twenty-five years later, he was gone.
Well, I thought, when you put it THAT way….
That little anecdote sent me into the tailspin. As I thought about life being too damn short, and the fact all I want, no, make that demand, out of life is decades of happiness with Ray, the mini-crisis descended upon me.
I don’t care how old I am. But it’s my time - it’s OUR time. It’s time to stop living my life to please other people, and start working towards what’s right for me, glorious me.
See? Being 50 might mean that you’re a bit more cranky, but you’re also a bit more wise.
