Fifty is the New Thirty

For the first time ever, my time is my own!

One day recently, as I went through my mail, I was shocked and not a little insulted to come across a membership invitation from the AARP. Had I become a ‘senior’ overnight? I was fifty, not seventy, and yet society was already relegating me to the realms of the aged — what the heck?

I’m a vigorous person, a fully functioning parent of college-age children, a writer, a home executive, a tennis player, a dog owner, a perfectly adequate cook, a world traveler — and too many other things to list here. I am no old lady, and I will thank the AARP to hold off on its recruitment pressure for a decade or two.

But it’s true that time has begun to take a toll:

• arthritis is making my hands less reliable and there are times I accidentally throw my tennis racket across the court, to the astonishment of my doubles partner;
• the perpetual hunt for reading glasses highlights both my treacherous eyesight and a certain glitch in my short term memory function;
• a more or less constant twinge in my lower back reminds me daily that I’m not as supple as I once was;
• and sometimes when I catch sight of my face in a window or mirror, I rear back in horror, wondering why that worn-looking stranger is staring at me so accusingly.

Despite all this, I am filled with a new and explosive kind of energy. I wake up with a head full of dreams and schemes almost every day of my life. I have a sense of urgency that was lacking in my forties. The dreams I’ve pursued for years— in particular, the dream of making a decent living as a novelist so that I can leave a legacy to my children — are more persistent and intense than ever.

And I seem to have endless energy, now that I’m not consumed by the daily minutiae of my children’s lives. When I wake up these days, I can join The London Writer’s Salon for an hour of intense writing, instead of tearing around the house trying to rouse sleeping children while simultaneously making lunch boxes and preparing breakfasts.

In the afternoons I can pack up my laptop and join my writer friends at the local library or a coffee shop instead of setting out to pick kids up from school and ferry them to their afternoon activities.

I can leave the house to take a walk or play pickleball or whatever takes my fancy without having to make a complex calculation about timing and the needs and wants of the rest of my household (although my dog, Fergus, does lay on the guilt pretty thick).

Out on the tennis court, I feel stronger and more coordinated than ever, despite the pain in my hands. I run down every single ball like a lioness hunting down prey. I can walk for miles, despite the irritation of budding bunions.

For the first time ever, my time is my own and the possibilities are endless! I feel as if my brain is on fire. I’m convinced that the fifties and early sixties will be the best and most productive years of my life — despite everything our ageist society tries to project on me.

So, hold off on that walking stick and those hearing aids, AARP. I’m just getting started.

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