Guess what. It’s my birthday and I’m only a half-decade old.
I’d be a half-century old, if I didn’t ditch the big 0 that was nipping annoyingly at the 5’s heels and toss it out to sea.
Don’t worry. Ditched zeros are not balloons that choke dolphins. They’re biodegrable!
Possibly even edible! So if stray zero washes ashore, I assure you the gulls will pick it clean as a mussel shell or crab legs.
If you lost the big 0 that is/was attached to your own 50, it’s yours.
Frame your favorite infant picture in it. Baby (yours, your child’s, your grandchild’s) will look cute in an 0.
Or use it to sponge your counters. Ditched zeros are tremendously absorbent. Better than Bounty!
Otherwise, since I turn five today, I want lots of presents. Toys!! New outfits for my beloved baby doll that has been lying in a heap on my closet shelf for forty odd years:
A new dining room set for my doll house which I would still play with, if my boys hadn’t turn it into a superhero cave when they were five:
And I want to play Musical Chairs. Yes. Musical chairs. No Wii for me.
“But it’s the beginning of a new decade. That’s how you have to look at it,” my husband soothes. He’s more used to how the 50 fits, two years now into his own “new” decade.
Mine doesn’t fit right. Not yet. It feels too tight in all the wrong places like a too-small bathing suit. Like high heels I gave up wearing even before my senior prom (which I ditched anyway for Studio 54. You know, disco balls?).
Although I’m sure I’ll grow into it. This “new” decade. As I’ve already had to resort to the radical, of trying to reverse my age with Radical Age Reversal…
…so I won’t look as lined and dumpy as my son’s clay portrait of me, as I actually might feel on some dumpy days:
Until the too-tight suit or heels fit just right, stretch in just the perfect places to feel as comfy as worn underwear or old slippers, I’ll blow bubbles. Toss my Liddle Kiddie (remember those?Apple Blossom, she’s on Etsy!) dolls….
…into the lake in summer to see if the sunfish will nip their toes. Transform my Barbie camper into a rescue unit for the rubber blue kitties and red puppies my pediatrician used to give me every time I got a shot. I’ll even have a tantrum or two, slam my bedroom door and play David Soul’s Bird on a Wire on my record player. (Oh sorry, leaping ahead to the terrible teens.)
Really, the best way to feel young on your birthday is to spend it with someone literally, or almost literally, twice your age: my mother at 94.
Because when I whine to her about how I’m getting “old” she will laugh her almost century-old head off, and squeal, “Honey, you’re just a kid!”
Exactly. I’m a mere fun-loving fret-free (lol!) fifty.
(Who was due for a bloglift, if not a face one. At midlife I refuse to go plaid and staid. I went young, vibrant and purplish instead! )