January 30, 2013 - Lo these many years I've heard that when dudes hit the half century mark, weird crap starts happening. Don't know if it's physical, emotional, mental or spiritual -- but I've heard these rumors for as long as I care to remember.
Well I'm hear to say, based on my own extensive, scientific experiments, it must all be hogwash. Yep. I rolled out my tape measure to 100 inches last Friday and found myself at 50. Uhmmm . . . I am still waiting for the euphoria to quake me to my soul. As of 50 years and 72 hours, nothing.
I think it's all a bunch of hooey.
I feel no sudden urge to date as many 20-something woman as there are days in the week, month or year.
I see no need to let my hair grow long.
I still believe pain hurts, and therefore I see no tatoos nor piercings of any sort in my immediate future.
I like my grayish-silver 2008 Ford Escape even though it's not a rag-top, only sports four cylinders and two-wheel drive. Thing is, I still feel like me, your hero, the ever-loving, coolest cat in town, Don Rush.
So, what gives?
I feel gypped. I mean, ain't it my God-given right, as a red-blooded American of my gender to turn all selfish and stuff whilst I still can?
Grrrrrrrrrrr-runt. I just tried again, real hard, to be in some mid-life transition place and nothing happened. I felt no movement of any kind -- physically or metaphysically. Maybe I am trying too hard. Maybe it's just like what I had to tell my son when he was three, and four and five. Just sit there, Son. Relax. It'll happen. Stop pushing, you'll hurt yourself. Here, try this prune juice, maybe that'll help.
Prune juice . . . how does that stuff taste anyway?
That night I turned 50, if I think really hard and truthfully about it, I probably was a teeny-weenie bit selfish. I spent it alone, by myself. Which was totally fine. Without guilt, I made myself a triple decker peanut butter (smooth) and strawberry preserves and banana sandwich and then washed it down with a tall glass of whole milk. If you must know, I don't cotton to skim or fake milk. Why should I pay 100 percent of the cost for something that's only two percent of what I like?
Later on in the night I watched a couple of movie DVDs. Movies, I might add, that posed no social or moral questions.
But, as Andrew Llyod Webber wrote so Madonna could sing, "Don't Cry For Me Argentina." I got plenty of unwanted attention this past weekend, as well as my fair share of adult diapers, fiber-fortified foods, bunion pads and the like. There was even a big, neon green sign stuck up on Main Street in Clarkston screaming something like, "DON RUSH IS 50!"
There was plenty hullabaloo. Not only was there a work party with lots of jeers and double chocolate cake, but my sisters made sure to celebrate my steps onto the 50 plane with an entirely different party the following night.
During the evening of my birthday, I thought it would be a nice to call most every body who was on my cell phone and thank them for helping me make it to 50. I think those folks I talked to appreciated the call. If I didn't call you, you probably haven't called me in a while (or I haven't programmed you into my cell phone's memory -- sorry 'bout that, my bad).
So, let's assess about my fifty-hood.
1. It's not very likely I am gonna' head into the wild zone with long hair, earring or tats or a super cherry muscle car.
2. I like triple decker peanut butter and strawberry preserves and banana sandwiches.
3. I like smooth peanut butter.
and 4. I have enough adult diapers to last me, but I guess that depends.
Oh, what I didn't tell you . . . one of the cool things about my 50th birthday weekend was I finally got my 2013 Spring Catalog from Gurney's Seed & Nursery Co. Sixty-eight pages of seeds, seedlings and neat stuff for the garden!
Don is Assistant Publisher for Sherman Publications, Inc. He has worked for the company since 1985. He has won numerous awards for column, editorial and feature writing as well as for photography. He has two, sons Shamus and Sean and resides in the area. To read archived copies of his columns, click on his name, just under his picture up top . . . He can be e-mailed at: email@example.com