And I don't mean Hawaii.
Next Wednesday, March 7th, I will be a half century old. That's right. Five-Zero. Half of one hundred. I don't know how this happened. Wasn't I just thirty? Or forty?
I feel like I'm living proof that age is all in your head. Sure, there are days when it's hard to drag my sorry ass out of bed and it takes an hour or so to work the kinks out of the back, but most days I don't feel any different than I did twenty years ago. I don't think I look fifty. I don't have any wrinkles and I still get zits. And if I keep my gray roots from growing in, who would know? When I think about what my mother looked like at fifty, I thank my lucky stars. I always thought Mom looked much older than she was. But then again, I was just a kid at the time. Doesn't everyone look old when you're a teenager?
I have no huge celebration plans. My family is taking me out to Claddagh's Irish Pub on Saturday March 10. It's my favorite restaurant. Feel free to stop by. I might even bake my own birthday cake. Spice cake with homemade buttercream icing, of course.
I have no big plans for this year either, other than finishing my second book. When I was thirty I had my second son. When I was forty I earned my Black Belt. I'm not sure I could top those. A publishing contract would be nice this year, though.
Okay, I've rambled long enough. I just want to say that I'm looking forward to the second half of my century. It's going to be a hoot!