The 'F' Word

I am on the doorstep of 50. Literally. Tomorrow’s my 50th birthday. Here it almost is, and here I very much am.

In lock-down.

I have anticipated 50 for the longest time. It looms, large - like the summit of a steep hill...with two vast, digit-shaped monoliths atop! Though in all likelihood that summit is already behind me. Who knows how far.

In fact I’ve anticipated this half century for so long that 49 has pretty much passed me by. Replaced by ‘nearly 50,’ or some other variant nod to the milestone. For all the mental prep, when I think about the number in the abstract and attach myself to it, it’s still hard to believe I am that. Yet when I look back over the years I can easily concede they’re all there, laid out like some elaborate runner, albeit prettier and more expertly woven in some parts than in others.

Still, I had embraced turning 50. I had plans. A posh lunch, a day-into-night all-generations home ‘festival’, a weekend in Paris with school-friends (50 times 5), a mystery trip with my partner, an autumn jaunt to the south of France with girlfriends, plus any number of micro-celebrations that might happen spontaneously because a life of liberty allows and turning 50 frankly merits them for a full ‘birthday year’.

I’d also be looking great. After months of working out, fastidious grooming, maybe even an expensive intervention, I would frolic in the face of 50 and revel in the disbelief of those who learned my age. “Noooo?!!!’ they would cry, and gawp as I smiled and nodded, smugly. ‘HELL-YYES!’

Cue loud scratch of needle on vinyl.

There will be no party. Paris and other trips have been cancelled. Lunch tomorrow will require washing-up. A back-muscle strain incurred days into lock-down (in the garden - so speaks middle-age, loudly) disabled me, putting paid to the exercise regime. I have been living a three-meals-a-day sedentary existence for weeks and I haven’t used a hairdryer or had my eyebrows threaded in the same time. I manage my facial hair with tweezers,….occasionally nail clippers (!), my frown is embedded. I am Not. Looking. My. Best.

But! There will be celebration tomorrow. There will be laughter, there will be music, there will be bubbles...there may well be tears. I will use a hairdryer and wear make up. I will be grateful, as I have been grateful every day for the last two months for my family and friends, for the space around me, for my work, for my neighbourhood, for my health. For my dog!

I have not yet begun to get my head around the implications of the global event that has side-swiped us all. There are voices that say we have collectively, accumulatively brought it about ourselves - through our long disregard for the planet, our abuse of animals, our refusal to acknowledge that we are not separate from nature but every bit a part of it. Though deeply uncomfortable this rings truer and clearer to me than any other discourse on the subject. What it means for the future - I don’t know, but I hope it can be enlightening and transformative and good.

For now I can only imagine the darkness that some people have been thrust into and the pain they must be feeling there. Postponed parties and delayed travel matter nothing beside what they are going through.

Tomorrow my parents’ only child turns 50. I will sorely miss embracing them. But with all that I have, and still hope for - I will feel blessed.