I'm not really 50. I'm close, though. I've decided to start saying I am 50 so I can get used to it. There is a part of me, hidden in a dark recess and only appearing when my spirit is lagging, that thinks that by saying I'm 50 I will never reach that milestone.
My youngest must sense something of that nature. Perhaps that is his talent, his gift: an ability to see the future or at least my sense of the future. [His outward talent now is his amazing musical sense and need to drum, drum, drum.] In church on Sunday, when it was time to receive my birthday blessing, Mother Susan asked me how old I was. I answered, "Let's call me 50." The youngest shouted out, "She's 46! She's 46! She's not 50!" Perhaps I am to die at 50 and he knows this in some way.
I am 46 on August 24. That information, along with my name and Social Security number, might enable you to steal my identity. Perhaps, then, it is you -- nameless, faceless identify thief -- who will not make it to 50.
This is a rambling and morbid post. That I am having these thoughts on this occasion comes as no surprise to me. I do believe I have these same thoughts every year. I am not middle-aged. I will not live to be 92. I am hopeful that I'll make it to 62.
That leaves me just 16 years to do everything I was meant to do. Anyone born on this day today will be eligible to drive in California on the day I turn 62. If I make it to 62.
The clock shows midnight. 50 is nifty.