There’s got to be a better name for it! Aging. I am cautiously, apprehensively, approaching 50 and the conundrums of a half century plague my thoughts. The first, how could I possibly be 50? My mother is 50. The streaks of silver hair that run through my bangs, the saggy, wrinkled skin wrapped around my once toned legs belie that I am the age I struggle to speak out loud. But my brain? 35. Some days I feel all of my 50 years but most days I am still trying to figure out if the sun rises in the East or West. It’s East.
Next conundrum, romantic terminology. I have a person, a boy person but for the life of me I struggle to call him what he is, a boyfriend. I am too old to be using the vernacular of a pimplely faced 7th grader? Although I do like, like him. The problem seems to arise when I open my mouth to talk about him.
While he is my significant other, that phrase stumbles off my tongue, like a square marble. He is my partner, however that sounds like we are launching a promising start-up or an LLC, about to beg our rich friends for cash. My “better half” is a false hood because of the two of us, I believe I am the better one. But he is taller than my 5’5. And his ability to grow a stunning beard eclipses my menopausal chin hairs.

Fiancé sounds pretentious and will never happen as he refuses to marry again and I believe my arms are too flabby to shove into the sleeves of a white gown. So I have settled on “The Boyfriend” it’s short, sweet and means that we are romantic but in a more sophisticated manner.
The third conundrum, my life is over, maybe it just feels that way. If I live to be 100 half of my life is over and I can promise I will not see one second of 100 years, cheese and cheap champagne being the demise of my effort to eat vegetables. Not too sure veggies make you live longer but that’s what the experts say.
My last problem is wondering if I am really as wise as society says someone who is about to turn 50 should be. I feel as if should go around making dumb lists about life lessons. The ones written is elaborate, squiggly lettering, that have the heading “Things I’ve learned in my 50’s.”

The lists that make you feel bad for choosing violence over turning the other cheek. Those lists that give advice to my daughter about being a lady but miss my son completely. The lists that compare life to a box of chocolates. I suppose this could be construed as one of those dreaded lists, so fuck it.

Things I’ve learned in my 50’s

Eat only the finest chocolate.

Sometimes violence gets results.

Show your tits to any and everyone, whenever possible.

Cry as much as you laugh.

Try and choke down vegetables. Sometimes.