50 days until I turn 50. I am not old. I’m a seasoned adult with a lot of experience in my portfolio. I would not go back to any time of my past and do it over again, because to change any one thing would skew my current situation. And to do it over again as it was? Nah, I’m content. YOLO.

I shaved 3/4 of my hair off in May, leaving just the crown slightly longer. I wanted to watch my hairs grow back in. I think I’ve lost some along the way as I mark this significant era. I noticed a pattern in my gray hair. I have lines marking my once smooth face. I will not fill them or wish them away. Damage to my skin is surfacing. Many of us are eager to personalize ourselves with piercings, hair dye and tattoos. The sun, time, and gravity are taking care of my individuation for me.

Youth is not my goal. It never was. When I was 16, I longed to be 18. When I became 18 I couldn’t wait to turn 21. I wanted all the privileges afforded to me in this life. What a disappointment, then, to find out that I still was too young to rent a vehicle…

I’m into longevity. Relevance. I never thought “oh I wish I could stay 23 forever” so, why would my aesthetic represent that? I’m a salty feminist who is railing against the absurd standards presented to us in the world to maintain a youthful appearance. Why? I understand people have to do what makes them feel better. But why is aging something to feel bad about? We are systematically brainwashed to believe that youthful appearances reign supreme, and that’s what gets me.

The story of Don Quixote, best known as the “Man of La Mancha,” sings about dreaming an impossible dream and fighting an unbeatable foe. He is deemed crazy for charging at windmills and wearing a shaving basin on his head while on a self appointed journey. I adore the hope and the seeing-the-good in that show. And yet it’s starting to feel like the age deniers are the Don Quixotes of now: on an impossible quest, prancing about with the tell-tale shaving basins upon their heads.

“It’s not polite to ask a woman her age.” Why not?

“She’s aging well.” What does that even mean?

“She looks good for her age.” Why the distinction?

As much as the human experience is collectively similar, as unique beings we each have many variables that factor into our mannerisms, decisions, and ultimately: appearances. I’ve entered no beauty contests. I am not open for analysis nor judgement.

I’m eager for the “invisible phase” of life, as it’s called. A time when I’m going to feel ignored and irrelevant. Bring it on! Is this a hiatus from worrying about my safety? Like, I can relieve myself of worrying about walking alone at night? A pause from fear before I become a feeble elderly lady who can easily get knocked down or scammed? I will pick up the worry later, I suppose. But for now, I’m in the clear because nobody can see me. Which begets my previous point, if I’m invisible, then there’s no reason to compare my skin to my age.

I’m getting closer to senior discounts! In five years (and fifty days) I’ll be eligible to live in a nearby community, held exclusively for those who have made it so far. That’s the thing- we don’t all make it this far.

I recently searched a former high school beau’s name. The first hit was his obituary.

Nope, I don’t look twenty. Nor thirty. And I’m okay with that. I wish everyone would be okay with that so we can get out of this ridiculous loop where handsome faces we grew up adoring now look… different…unnatural. Let’s love the journey. Let’s save some money by not chasing impossible quests. Some of my peers are laughing about the AARP mailers they’re now receiving. I joined years ago. You don’t have to be any certain age to benefit that perk!