This is my last day of being 50.  A nice round number. People who are 50 are quinquigerians (you know, like septuagenarians younger friends, just a better word with more “q’s”). It seems fair enough to consider this, now, middle-age. I resented the suggestion when I was 40, although I did not mind that, as a number, either, but I certainly did not consider my 40-year-old self MIDDLE aged.  I was conscious of the fact that I was still wildly fertile and had way more reddish-brown hair than silver.

Now at least half of my hair is now gray. Now 50 seems like the middle, like being half way.

50… half a century….. half my life (I hope…)….. half adult/half elder….50/50.

But still 100% the girl I’ve always been… when do those yearnings (like to visit Iceland) and dreams (like financial independence) and ideals of youth (like why are people still racist/sexist in 2016?) … when do those things fade, like my hair colour? When do I slide into the complacency that, in my mind, accompanies middle age? When do I become that entitled, say-what-I-want, demanding senior citizen, instead of the still-slightly-naive (why IS there still racism and sexism in 2016?), starry eyed, Rosie the Riveter “I can change things, yes I can”? (OK, that’s a cross between Rosie and Bob the Builder, but you get it, dear reader)

Is middle-age the middle of the road? Or is 50 halfway to awesome?