I generally don’t consider myself old. Sure, I joke about my age—A LOT—but really, 52 isn’t that old. I used to think it was, back when I was younger. I blame The Golden Girls, who made me think this is what I’d look like in my 50s:
I know I don’t look like Jennifer Aniston or J.Lo, my so-called contemporaries, but I definitely don’t look like Bea Arthur either—although, I am equally as sarcastic.
That said, lately my age has been showing. Here’s what I mean:
I can’t read anything without my glasses. I think everyone mumbles. I even have a prescription medicine bottle I can’t open without a gripper pad, just like my grandma used. And don’t get me started on the senior moments: forgetting someone’s name, why I entered a room, or where I left my [insert any object imaginable].
Plus, my joints get stiff when I sit too long and I make creaking noises when I get up from the couch. I wake up at least once every night to pee and I can hurt myself just be sneezing too hard. Even walking has become dangerous.
Case in point: On a recent morning walk, I tripped over a branch and fell. HARD. So hard my AppleWatch was alerted. Just like the original Life Alert. “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”
Not only was I stunned, I was in pain. I landed awkwardly—on a sharp rock—and cracked a rib. I have osteoporosis, so it could have been worse. But it also could have been better; I could have stayed upright.
Nearly three weeks later, and I’m still recovering.
Despite these painful midlife moments, I still think being 52 (and 3/4) isn’t as bad as The Golden Girls led me to believe. At the very least, it’s not as matronly-looking.
—LJDT
