Today, as they thumbed through a magazine like The National Enquirer, Kathy Lee and Hoda, the NBC talk show hosts, declared that according to what they were reading, January 17 will be the worst day of the year and June 17 will be the best day of the year, that is the day I turn 5000000000000000.
I just finished Nora Ephron’s book entitled I Remember Nothing and Other Reflections and this is what my parody of her sounds like about the age of Fifty. Fifty, I’m not suppose to turn 50, 50 is for old people. Fifty is for my Mother and all the people wearing Alfred Dunner and elastic waist band pants. Fifty is for people with severe chicken neck and a lot of grey hairs. Fifty is for church suppers and the Friday night fish fry. Hey wasn’t it just yesterday that I was 28 and my younger sister taunted me with the words: “YOU WILL BE THIRTY, THIRTY.” Nope, fifty is not for me.
Molly isn’t turning 50, a few years younger, she fought a horrible cancer and died in her mid 20s. Jim, my brother’s friend and a gentle, fun, outgoing soul, he isn’t turning 50. Somewhere in his 30s the lottery of life gave him a seizure condition which caused an early death. I thought of these two as I drove to the dentist today. It’s cold out, my lungs hurt from a recent bronchitis and I’m sure both, with their enormous zest for life, would wish to be here and have a little lung pain and the gift of being 49.
Nora Ephron also points out in her book that she did not really get it until she was fifty. “In fact looking back I was clueless until I was about fifty years old.” The most ironic thing about aging is that as we get it more and more with each year, our bodies and minds let go of it. It would make more sense if we got it when we were young and full of the energy needed to do something with it. But then again, maybe we tried that and through time, realized certain truths that would have stymied us in our youth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~here is a poem I wrote on New Year’s Eve, sad things happen but good things do to