First of all, confess your real age. In fact, don’t just confess it – own it.
Fifty is cool. There are fifty states. The 1950s gave us some great Alfred Hitchcock movies and Frank Lloyd Wright buildings. Fifty is halfway to one hundred, which was a lot of money once upon a time.
Fifty is a milestone, a benchmark, a goal. It’s one of those hallowed, special, glowing numbers that reverberate through time and space. We celebrate fiftieth anniversaries, not forty-seventh ones.
Besides, everyone can tell how old you are anyway, by countless little clues. Such as:
* You never wear slim-cut jeans.
* If you use the word “hater,” it’s probably in an ironic, poking-fun-at-your-kid way.
* You pile on more scarves than Steven Tyler.
* You can’t remember anyone’s name, and expect people to know who you’re talking about from cryptic references such as “Oh, you know. The one whose cousin was in that commercial.”
* You belong to a book club.
* Your book club meetings are the highlight of your social life.
* You’re seldom seen without a mug of coffee or glass of wine in your hand, depending on the hour.
* You’re prepared for most minor emergencies with a stash of Band-Aids, thread, and hand sanitizer.
* You’re never quite sure which one is Ryan Reynolds and which one is Ryan Gosling.
* You have to pause – only for a second but it’s a definite pause – when asked how old you are.
So stand tall, be proud, and remember that fifty is an accomplishment, not a crime. (Unless it’s Fifty Shades of Grey. But that’s another topic for another day.)