I spent the better part of my thirty-fourth year dreading my thirty-fifth.  It wasn’t that I expected anything to change.  I didn’t see thirty-five as some kind of horrific milestone, though now looking back on it, I think subconsciously I knew I’d reached a realistic half-way point.

What I couldn’t get past was the ugliness of the number itself, the overt roundness of it, the slovenly way it sits on its protuberant bellies as though fully sated and content in its rotundity.  For twelve months I avoided, at every opportunity, speaking my age.  The image invoked by the words disgusted me.

What makes this behavior remarkable is the fact that I assign no importance to age.  I couldn’t tell you the age of my siblings, and it takes an appreciable amount of ciphering to determine my father’s.  I know the age of my children, but only because I am expected to recite it with some frequency.  If you admit to having children, you are expected to know when you had them.  I suppose that’s fair…

For a full twelve months, while in my early forties, I aged myself by one year.  As my birthday neared, a friend laughingly pointed this out to me, proving her point by counting backwards from my birth-date.  She jokingly held forth my lapse as proof of some kind of mental instability, and her jeering bothered me at first, until I realized that my behavior only proved what I already knew; it really didn’t matter.  For years, the question “How old are you?” forced me to think.  It just wasn’t a number I carried around in my head.

Until now…

I still hesitate when asked my age, but not because I don’t know the answer.  I hesitate because being forty-nine means I’ll soon be fifty, and I don’t want to be. 

As my birthday nears, I find myself surrounded by two types of people; those who know, and those who don’t.  And, it is those who know who have made it difficult to share with the others.  For the first time in my life, people seem to feel it acceptable to pronounce me “old”.  And, they do so, loudly, and often.

My father was the first to raise the baton.  Months ago, as we chatted on the telephone, he mentioned my upcoming birthday, casually asking “How old will you be?”.  He’s in his late seventies; the question didn’t surprise me.  This was before I’d learned to hedge, and my answer came quickly.

“Fifty.”

“Fifty?” His voice was loud.  “You’re going to be fifty?”  This time his volume was accented by an accusatory tone.  “Do you know how old that makes me feel…to have a daughter who’s going to be fifty?”  He laughed as though he’d told a joke.  I struggled to see the levity, while chuckling softly so as not to hurt his feelings. 

Since that time, my birthday is never mentioned by anyone who doesn’t feel it perfectly appropriate to point out my longevity.  Some appear awestruck; as though living fifty years is an accomplishment worth considerable thought and recognition.  Some seem to feel as though my age poses a ticklish predicament.  They giggle and point as though I’ve caught my heel in a sidewalk grate.  And, of course, there are those whose faces fall in sympathy.  I prefer not to know what they are thinking.

A dear friend mentioned my birthday the other day, and immediately asked how old I would be.  As we’ve known each other only two years, he had no reason to know.  Because he is a man, and younger, I really didn’t want him to. 

I vacillated between simply ignoring the question and employing my finest southern accent, reminding him how improper it is to ask a lady her age, sure that in his usual manner he would soon turn the conversation in a different direction.  While I hesitated he began to throw out numbers, “Fifty-five?  Seventy-six?  Fifty-two?”, until I could take no more.

“Fifty.”  I said it, again.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?”  His response resounded with authenticity, imbuing me with the courage to explain.  He listened quietly until I finished.

“I have to admit that while you were talking I imagined myself fifty…and my heart did a little flip.”   That one didn’t even hurt.

Last Saturday, my children and several friends celebrated my birthday by coming to my house for a cook-out.  My oldest son manned the grill, and everyone else brought plates and plates of my favorite foods.  The broccoli casserole my daughter-in-law made was the best I’d ever tasted, and by the time I discovered the potato casserole my daughter had cooked, I had to scrape the sides of the dish just to get a taste.  My delight in their cooking skills was enhanced by the feeling that they belonged to me.  I hugged them both, telling them how much I appreciated them.  They did me proud…

Despite my warnings, my daughter insisted I have my favorite cake.  The raspberry-filled, white-chocolate cake she produced was perfect.  As we admired her creativity, in scattering wine-colored cherry blossoms around the perimeter of the plate, she produced the obligatory package of black and white candles; the kind that usually come with a set of gray, plastic headstones.

“Do you like the Emo candles?”, she asked demurely.

“Where are the matching headstones?”, I countered.

“I said they were Emo, Mama.”, she answered with quiet forcefulness.  “I’m being sweet.”

I meant to mark this day.  Had all gone according to plan, I’d be wearing a jacket against an early chill as I clicked down a neon-lit sidewalk in Times Square.  We’d be on our way to dinner, fashionably late of course, in a restaurant requiring reservations be made months in advance.  Tomorrow would have been our final day in New York City.  Our visit to the fashion district would be a wonderful memory as I laced my sneakers for one last run through Central Park.

As it is, I accept the blessing of over-time with a company hedging its bets against a fragile economy.  I’m schlepping my son to football practice, and I’m writing.  My gift to myself is my writing.  I will document my half-century in words, and feelings, and words, and epiphanies, and words.

Happy Birthday to me…