Commentary by Danielle Wilson
I turned 45 last week. Four. Five. Sounds old when I think about it, which has been a lot recently as I’ve battled a cold while failing miserably at juggling my knives of work, kids, Doo and ever-present dirty dishes.
But here’s the thing, I don’t feel old. I don’t feel like I’m at the half-way point of life; that the next four decades are going to suck now that I need reading glasses and calcium. I actually feel great. I’m for the most part healthy, strong and on occasion even the teeniest bit wise. I know I’d much rather be 45 than 25, and with my children mere steps from being out the door, I’m truthfully looking forward to my 50s (because according to the commercials, once I’m AARP eligible, I’ll spend all of my time traveling to exotic locations, spoiling precocious but adorable grandkids and either fishing with Doo or playing bingo with gal-pals. Can’t wait!).
Part of this youthful “spirit” is the fact that both my parents and Doo’s are still looking good in their 70s. Thanks to hair dye, fitness programs and bionic body parts, “the elderly” don’t appear to be so. I’m not saying that they aren’t old, because believe me, they definitely are (smiley face emoji), it’s just that relative to memories of my own grandparents; Mamaw, Judge, Grams and Pops are not only still in the game, but playing really well. And if they’re not calling for subs yet, then I sure as shoot won’t either. Go team!
I’m also lucky to have two outspoken daughters who don’t think twice about announcing that my clothes are “so last season” or that my makeup is “not on point.” I credit them with keeping my often questionable “style” at least in this decade. And my sons make certain I’m always abreast of the latest tech gadgets, “must-watch” shows, and mom-appropriate slang. Basically, I have handlers that keep me young, even if it’s only to ensure I don’t embarrass them in public.
So bring it on, 45. I’ll be one step closer to bingo.