For the most part, I'm pretty darn happy with my age and stage. Until - I get invitations to dinners at Sizzler and Golden Corral, which include a short conversation on preparing for retirement, hearing aids, will writing, and Senior Citizen discounts (in caps, as if I can't see or hear the phrase).
I'm fine with being over 50, except when shopping for clothes no longer includes shopping at the mall - because 75% of mall stores cater to those under 40, those wanting to dress like their preteens to college-aged, and 25% cater to orthopedic shoes and polyester easy-to-wear.
I'm fine with being over 50, until I am called "ma'am," "dear," or "honey."
I'm fine with wearing progressive eyewear (I can read a label and see the items on the shelf, read a text and see my students); I'm fine with buying shoes that are more about fit than fashion, as long as they are fashionable; I'm fine with reminiscing, as long as it means moving toward today; I'm fine with bumps and bulges and sags and unevenness, as long as I'm fit. I'm fine with sharing photos of grandchildren, as long as they're on my phone and not in my wallet.
I'm good. I'm happy. I'm loved - dang grandchildren. I'm in love - beauties they are. And if my feet hurt at the end of the day, if I need to color out that gray, remove that facial hair, exercise like crazy, eat as healthy as I've ever eaten, then that's the price I pay for living life to the fullest.
Lists about aging or remembering you're from a certain era drive me nuts. Emails from AARP about "bests" drive me crazy (TG they were referencing Huff and Kimberly Inskeep).
Retirement? Hell, I'm just beginning! And - I have license to embrace -