Tomorrow, I’ll be 49.
I’m not sure why, but getting closer to 50 bothers me in a way that 30 and 40 didn’t. I’m sure some of it is perception, even though 50 doesn’t mean what it used to, I don’t think.
Most of it, I think, is how getting older makes others perceive me. And doors are closing behind me now, not that they didn’t before, but before, they were usually things I didn’t really have a chance at. Now the doors are closing on things I really wanted but never found time for. And I look forward to see that there is less time to do the things I could do and want to do. That depresses me the most.
I mean, I was never anyone’s idea of beautiful, and getting to 50 likely means that I won’t ever be. I suppose I can live with that. I just wish I hadn’t taken this long to remedy my problems.
50 = regrets in a big way, and I think that’s what bothers me the most.