I know I’m fifty because... I no longer feel safe. Turning my head I saw a squad car waiting beside me at the signal light. With stunned surprise, I stared into the first-beard face of a young man who looked about sixteen. He might be the same age as my son. This youth is my protection?
I know I’m fifty... at the optician’s while listening to a sales pitch exalting the benefits of trifocals by a fledgling new manager, who never wore glasses. Steaming with resentment, I rammed on a pair of glasses, I wrote the check and stormed out of the store. Out in the mall my stomach was churning and my vision was blurring.
“Mrs. Ives” yelled the immature man chasing me into the mall. Your vision is blurred because you have my demonstration glasses on” he told everyone!
Returning home I entered the sunroom of my house. I discovered the phone off the hook and a cup of cold coffee waiting for me. Over the hill maybe, but now I’m slipping into the sea of forgetfulness.
I know I’m fifty... when teenagers come to my door and offer to shovel my sidewalk. They must think I am too frail to accomplish it myself.
I know I’m fifty... when traveling alone nobody tries to pick me up anymore. I’m too old, and too heavy. What use to be “Hi Babe!” from a friendly truck driver is now “Hey Lady, where do I find 390 North?”
After my splendid vacation I had three inches of exposed white roots where Clairol ash blond should be. Maybe that’s why that nervy waitress suggested the Senior Citizen Special. I’m never going into that restaurant again!
I know I’m fifty... when the flashy fall previews are not the fashions I need. I want clothes that will camouflage my aging anatomy. The classy girl who used to wear four-inch spikes all day shopping now looks for a wedged heel shoe with a strap across the ankle. The biggest blow came when I went looking for a bathing suit. I pushed through the hangers looking for my size only to spy two red Ping-Pong balls with four yellow straps dangling from them. Finding a swimming suit turned out to be a bigger challenge than I imagined.
At the high school open house night, I approached a mature man with a suit and a tie on who was my age. He looked intelligent and competent. Immediately, I introduced myself and launched into my son’s problems with chemistry.
He interrupted me to say, “That’s interesting but I’m Jim’s dad. The teacher is the kid with the Adam’s apple and the red tie standing near the bulletin board.”
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