It was about 9.925 years ago that I turned 40, and made a determined proclamation:
When I turn 50, I will either be traipsing nonchalantly in Italian wine country, or lounging decadently on an exotic beach, surrounded by loved ones and celebrating life!
This week, on the cusp of my grand debut as a quenquagenarian, I have no bags packed and no passport ready for stamping. It just didn’t work out the way I planned. My big birthday celebration will consist of a smallish, self-initiated gathering of close friends at a local bar, and I’m really okay with that. Truly. I will be. Just give me a minute.
Turning 50 is a strange experience. It’s like you’re moving from one science-fiction-inspired universe into another, without complete control of your own destination, while helpless observers standby and offer advice, support … snide comments and black balloons. There’s no turning back. Ever. Continue reading