Like a man running a marathon in 110 degree heat. Like a prize fighter having gone 20 rounds in a 15-round fight. Like a camper coming between a momma bear and her cubs. Like doing chin-ups with weights tied to your legs.
These are all ways of saying how I feel this week. These and many other sayings are ways to tell you that, this Saturday, the thing I have been least looking forward to since I was a child, the thing I thought would NEVER happen to me, has inevitably reared its ugly head.
Old Billy is turning 50.
I wrote about this last year when I thought I was turning 50, but was actually only turning 49. It would appear senility has struck me early. I actually did think I was a year older than I actually was, but Anne saved the day by pointing this out to me in time so that my celebration was actually more of a relief. It is somewhat ironic that it is Anne who is the one this year that has been kindly reminding me that this actually is the year I turn 50… quite often, in fact. Waking up, she mentions it. Walking to the car, she brings it up. Coming out of the bathroom, the topic comes up when she reminds me to turn on the exhaust fan. She texts me. She calls me on my cell. She even made a movie clip on Facebook to remind me.
In a little less than 7 years, I will get my revenge, Anne. You will be turning 50. I’ll rub it in. I will shout it from the mountain tops! Well, I’ll maybe pay someone to do that….I will, after all, be 56, and hardly wanting to climb any mountains by then. But my recordings will shout out from up there!!
When I was 10 or so, the only 50 I understood was that my dad drank Labatt 50. The age itself sounded so old, so dirty. ‘He’s 50!’, I’d say under your breath about some old washed-out looking guy. ‘He’s done….get the pine box!!’. I would stay far enough away in case it was catching, like he had ‘old-cooties’ or something. This, of course, would never happen to me. No, by the time I would reach 50, they would have cured aging in the human race. I could ride around in my flying car, rag top down, my hair implants waving in the wind, waving my three hands at passers-by (I will have had a third arm installed because it is so handy!) My age, while actually 50 in years, would look more like 25 due to the advances we will have made in science and medicine.
While I’m typing this I have the flu (I think….if you see purple Leprechauns, is that the flu?). I’ve taken a break, and decided to watch some dog-rescue videos on Youtube. This turned out to be a bad idea, as I get overly emotional when I am sick with the flu. This dog just got rescued and saved from certain death, living in squalor, blind in one eye and unable to see out of the other….oh, the humanity. Luckily, I have three dogs with which to lavish my attention to. They are now sitting with me on my chair while I sing ‘In the Arms Of The Angel’ softly to them through my tears. I can’t tell if that’s a look of love or horror on their faces, but they accept the treats I give them nonetheless.
Okay. So now I am going to be a Junior-Senior Citizen. I don’t get the senior discount, but I get to feel older. If you see me on Saturday, and I don’t happen to be in a fetal position sucking my thumb and crying, perhaps a monetary donation to me will help me blaze through the pain. Or sing Happy Birthday to me like Marilyn Monroe to President Kennedy, all sultry-like. It can’t hurt.
Bill's Musings 