Bill's Musings

We all have particular fears or stuff we dread. Many have a fear of spiders (aracnophobia). Other’s a fear of heights (acrophobia). I have a fear of fish, called ‘ichthyophobia’. I also fear some heights, and to be honest, some spiders. But there is one fear I have been facing for many years that I will share with you this week.

      I have a fear of turning 50.

     Now, before we debate the psychology of this fear, allow me to pontificate for a bit. As a wee slip of a lad, the idea of turning 50 never entered my mind. To me, 50 meant old and decrepit, full of arthritis, balding, stooped over, etc. That’s actually a pretty good description of me, come to think of it. Anyways, as I grew older, the milestones of aging began to appear. Turning 13. Then 18. Hitting 20. Finally turning 30. Now, at this point, it starts getting serious. The decade between thirty and forty passes by at times quickly, at time like molasses in January, depending upon what you are doing at the time. And so, in my thirties, I began to turn my gaze, ever so slowly, towards the inevitable number….40.

      To be honest, 40 turned out to be easy. I embraced middle age with reckless abandon. I treated it as ‘just another number’. After all, 40 was the new 30, they said (‘they’ being people in their late forties, probably). I blew past 40 like a man sliding on Mazzola oil and plastic sheets. People around me were so amazed that it didn’t bother me. I became a beacon of maturity and enlightenment to my peers. Yes, let’s just go with that.

    But, as the years slipped by, I was faced with my inevitable phobic fear. As I hit 45, I could no longer deny what was coming. At 46 and 47, my birthdays were panic-filled sweaty events. I had the look of a panic-stricken horse, about to bolt at any second from a fire or something. At 48, I hyperventilated. What’s odd is that for the first 3 months while being 48, I somehow thought I was 49. Anne pointed out to me my mistake, and I went galloping tra-la-la-la-la down the sidewalk, which is quite the sight, let me say.

     And so, finally, January 18, 2013, I turned 49. And now, there was no escaping it: I had one year of my forties to prepare myself mentally to turning 50. It finally had come. That number that I have dreaded off and on for so many years. It would mean that I was definitely on the downward slope of my life in term of years. If I live to 100, I’m in the second half now. Or less.

     It took about a week for me to get over the shock. And then, it occurred to me that, although it was coming, I wasn’t 50 YET. No sir. No way. I’m 49, I’m still extremely good looking (While my looks may have faded somewhat over the years, I continue to wow them!) Okay, that last sentence is a lie, but cut me some slack here.

      And so, things turned out to look okay. I’m 49, I am breathing, I am happy, I am calm. I keep telling myself this over and over if I start to freak out a bit.

     Everything was perfect, in fact…..until some turkey pointed out that, being 49, I am now technically in my fiftieth year. Mathematically speaking, I have entered into my fiftieth year. This turkey went on to tell me that he was 4 years younger than me, and in fact, he would ALWAYS be younger than me.

     So if you see me, driving a grey Ford truck, listening to some Air Supply loudly, and crying….just let it slide. I’ll be okay.