This is not a path she would have chosen. Not back at fourteen, when she experienced her first kiss, with an equally inexperienced boy, his tongue fumbling in her mouth like an over-eager puppy’s.
Not even when she turned 25, and leggings were still in, and she worked at a NYC fashion magazine. Back when turning 50 had seemed that. A path she could choose if she wanted to – or not. Because she was still too young to actually imagine growing old.
Now she was embarking down that path. Shoved from behind by the emboldened 49. She had to write the horrid number for the first time, the day after her birthday, when she happened to have a doctor’s appointment. She had to write it on the medical forms. Her age. 50!
It was as glaring as the numbers on the hideous 50th birthday cards that all, with cheesy humor, made light of of this round number. So very round – a well-weathered beach stone.
And yes that, hard as a rock!. You could pound it with your fist. A hammer. It refused to break.