I am marking off the final minutes of this evening, taking careful note of the status of my mind and body, the way a scientist – whose curiosity has got the best of him – would do after taking a dose of poison.
I'll be fifty on June 6, and I am on careful watch for any change.
For instance, I am not under any impression that my bones are turning to powder. I have no urge to get those damn kids off my lawn. I don't want dinner at 3PM.
The minutes are passing…no, my hair has not spontaneously burst into gray and white (it's more like a slow burn, actually). Liver spots haven't appeard on my hands like an uncalled-for galaxy.
So far, no alteration. The dress still fits. Nothing has happened? Well, I'm tired, but its midnight, for Chrissakes.
Wait…was that a sign of becoming…crotchety?
We'll have to address that startling possibility at some later date, because it's since changed from PM and AM and I too have apparently changed – or people would have me think so. Because I'm now fifty years old.
But I feel exactly the same as I did five minutes ago. I feel as I did five years ago, in fact. And I'm a vast improvement over the Aubrey of 15 years ago; you'll just have to take my word on that.
So am I to understand that 'cage' happens to have 'age' in it purely by linguistic accident?
Then perhaps it's up to me. Me, not chronology. Age hasn't a right to stop me. Oh, other things do – a sense of shame, dignity, knowledge of the laws of the state of California…but not the other thing. Ultimately, all the choices are mine.
And I choose to continue with my efforts to be fabulous.