My heart doesn’t know it’s 50.
I understand the chronology, the biology, probably even the phrenology but it doesn’t.
It beats and tumbles and quivers and is 40, 30, 20… not 50.
I look in the mirror and I see 50. I see it in the grey hair, the laugh lines, and the blurred, soft edges.
My eyes are just as blue as when I was 35, 25, 15… but they know they are 50.
My closet, mostly, speaks of the style of a quinquagenarian.
I have places that creak and pop and complain that remind my body it has been walking around for about 18 000 days.
But my heart… my foolish, crazy, irreverent heart. It seems to have no idea that it is supposed to beat with measured dignity, not gallup, gambol, gyrate and jumble about my chest.
My chest, incidentally, is well aware it is 50. Where once there was bounce and spring and firm curvaceousness, now there is comfortable softness. Like old slippers. And dressing gowns. And weak, milky tea….
So how is it supposed to contain the wildly beating beast that inhabits it? With its temper tantrums and drum solos and aching, aching, aching.
How can I break it to my heart that it is 50? Funny…. that sounds a lot like breaking my heart…..