Half-Century Mark

Gee, thanks, AARP.

I turn fifty today.

So far, to mark the occasion, AARP has sent me a membership application and ads for Cologuard, an at-home medical test which involves collecting a sample of your own poop, has been showing up on my Facebook page. Oh, hooray.

And this morning, my gastroenterologist-husband woke me up to tell me "Happy Birthday" and that he had made an appointment with one of his partners for my age-50 screening colonoscopy. Oh, double hooray, he didn’t – and probably won't – forget. (Incidentally, he says you really should get that colonoscopy and not try to depend on a test like Cologuard.)

In his defense, in addition to arranging my colonoscopy (how thoughtful), my husband is taking me on a birthday trip – I do not yet know the destination, though I have grilled our son, whom my husband told, the best way I knew how. He didn’t crack, the poor kid.

A half-century. Doesn’t seem like it.

On the one hand, I have developed the distressing habit of referring to anyone under the age of 35 as “a kid.” I went for a physical the other day and I swear the doctor was a 12-year-old girl trying hard to look serious.

On the other hand, every day, on my way to bring my son to his high school, I pass a senior-living, or "active-adult," apartment building. It’s for ages 55 and up. Wha? Not ready for that.

But I’ve read – in places like this – that people actually become happier as they get older. High point of happiness, according to one study: age 85. Makes sense when you think about it. I watch my kids worry over stuff that I worried over at their ages. I tell them they don’t need to, just like people told me. Guess what? They don’t, or can't, hear it, any more than I did.

Oh, well, live and learn.