50 is the new cat lady

I was talking with my dad recently about meeting for lunch to celebrate my 50th birthday in two weeks. He was reluctant to mention which birthday it is. It’s really weird saying it out loud… “I’m turning 50 years old.” (I think my parents are also having a difficult time reconciling the fact that their ‘Baby’ is that old.)

I don’t feel 50, I certainly don’t act 50. I do suspect that I look 50. I don’t know how to explain it. It seems like it should be a really big deal, but it merely seems very strange. I’m counting down the days… 14 more… but I’m not sure if it won’t all be just a huge let down.

Will I wake up that morning feeling vastly different? Will I have some sort of epic epiphany? Suddenly overnight I’ll know the Meaning of Life, and have a lighted path to my destiny. Or will it be another lazy morning filled with cat litter and doggie kibble?

Hubs cashed in some flyer miles to get me a roundtrip airline ticket to hang with my College Kid on that weekend. I’m more excited about spending time with her for an adventure, than that it’s because of my birthday. (We’re headed to Knoxville, TN to participate in the Color Me Rad 5k run.)

A few years ago, I don’t know if I would’ve even wanted to participate in a 5K race, let alone one where strangers pelted me with colored powder. Maybe beginning my second half century has freed me to be more adventurous.

Who knows though, after my actual birthday, I may be reduced to a tottering, old, cat lady waiting by the mailbox for my AARP membership card. Spending my days shopping for comfortable, yet butt-ugly shoes, and arguing with cashiers that I do indeed qualify for the senior discount… $5 is $5 dammit!

I’m wavering between excitement and apprehension. I’m either waiting on Nirvana or Medicaid.