Have you ever asked yourself the question, “If I could be any age, what age would I be?” I did, I did! And when I plunged head first into the Nifty Fifties (not the 1950’s) that question got me to thinking (oh, yikes).
Would I want to be a child again? Hum . . . . No. As much as I loved my idyllic childhood, growing up with the best siblings and cousins in the world, I don’t think I could go back to my older brother, Tim, slapping me on my back and knocking the breath out of me (you know you did that! Admit it!). 🙂 Or Chomie (the imaginary frenemy that my sister, Melinda, and I had) kidnapping our babies at the Braves baseball games aka the steps of our front porch (looking back, we had twisted over-the-top Criminal Minds imaginations. We could have co-written that television series when we were mere babes). And we spent way too many summer days at the Braves games in Atlanta.
What about a teen? Maybe. If I could go back to that period of my life with the
knowledge I have now! But, no thank you. While I have very warm, cozy memories of those very exciting years and miss all of my high school buds, I couldn’t go back to those crazy, school-skipping teen years. Did I write that out loud? Yes, I hate to admit it, but I did skip school
frequently occasionally. 🙁 Note to my children: That’s why I was so adamant about you never missing school!
Twenties? No, I would be in my
beached whale childbearing years and as much as I adored my babies, I wouldn’t have time to write a blog, try new recipes, plan events, travel, enjoy my grands,(wait, my grands wouldn’t even be here!) hang out with my adult children, etc. Does that sound selfish? And, no offense to my kids, but the grace of taking care of a baby 24 hours a day has, along with Elvis, left the building! And I had adult braces (and that was before Invisalign). Enough said.
Thirties? Poodle hair? Just say no! What was I thinking? Why didn’t someone stop me? Why was there no intervention? Why, why, why?
Forties? Kinda, sorta, maybe. I sailed through the fabulous forties with such speed that I didn’t even notice that set of parenthesis that pounced upon my face and became permanently etched on either side of my mouth as I rounded the curve toward 50. I’ve been contemplating Juvederm but I need a close friend to go first, then if they are not permanently disfigured, I’ll do it. I don’t want a complete face lift, mind you. I don’t want to look in the mirror and not know who is looking back at me. I don’t want collegenized (I made up that word) lips the size of Rhode Island. I just want to look like the 40 year old me. Is that too much to ask?
To be brutally (is there any other way?) honest, there is something alluring about each of these ages. But none of them afforded the luxury of freedom like turning 50 (almost four years ago) did! I have to admit that I cringed a bit at the thought of the big five O. Turning 30 or 40 just didn’t bother me one bit but there was something about turning 50 that gave me pause. For some strange reason, I thought 50 would sneak up on me looking like an ancient, wicked witch of the west, but with a lacquered, bouffant hairdo, granny panties and stretchy pants. I complained to my husband that I didn’t want to turn 50. And he, always the wise one, replied, “There is an alternative.” All of a sudden, 50 didn’t seem so bad.
These are the vows I made before turning 50 (why, yes, you can have vows that aren’t attached to a wedding).
- I will never wear stretchy polyester pants (yoga pants are OK).
- I will never have ultra short hair (I just don’t look good with short hair. I don’t). And I will continue to sport my naturally blond high-lights with subtly placed low-lights (Shout out to my amazing hairstylist Ashley). Wink.
- I vow to never stop wearing skinny jeans, heels, my old UGGS that still look brand new & all my DUKE t-shirts (not necessarily at one time). Go Duke! 🙂
- I will never end my love affair with shoes (maybe just a tad lower heel).
- I will continue to buy the majority of my jeans at American Eagle because their jeans fit my body best (with an occasional designer jean splurge).
- I will totally rock whatever age I am. Reminder: Age is just a number.
And then it happened, it took me by surprise( oh, wait, that’s a Diana Ross song) – my 50th birthday had sneaked up on me. I awakened with bated breath. I arose and went to the bathroom. I cautiously peeped into the mirror. I, amazingly, looked exactly the same as I did at age 49. It was a miracle! I didn’t feel any different. I didn’t look any different (after all, I had one eye closed and was half asleep).
So I tentatively stepped into 50 like I was trying on a much-too-expensive evening gown. I held my breath. I wiggled. I shimmied. And guess what? It fit. Perfectly. Like a glove. So, I splurged and bought the matching bag. It’s called freedom – The power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint. And the following lyrics ran through my head. Oh, yeah! I have a song for this!
Go with the flow in a spin if you can’t move to this
Then you probably are dead
So wave your hands in the air
Bust through the moves run your fingers through your hair
This is it for a winner
Dance to this and you’re gonna get thinner
Move slide your rump
Just for a minute let’s all do the bump
Bump bump bump yeah
U can’t touch this
Look man u can’t touch this ~MC Hammer
So, if you could be any age, what age would you be?