Since I intend to live to at least one hundred, I guess, technically, that makes me currently middle-aged.

When I’m interviewed on my 100th birthday (save the date: 10/08/2066), I will credit my longevity to Naked Wednesdays, Diet Coke, and Doritos.

Meantime, literally- ha! Meantime, I’m middle-aged.
What does that mean?
It means that  mentally I think I’m all that and a bag of chips.
It means that although my lingo is hip and cool, I’m becoming embarrassingly dated.
It means that even though I dress like I’ve always dressed, now I draw attention.
It means that even though I dance like I’ve always danced, now I draw attention.
It means that even though I swear like I’ve always sworn, now I draw attention.
And not adoring, appreciative, isn’t that cute attention.
More like, what the–

“Act your age.”
I am! I’m just doing what I’ve always done.

Sure, it may take longer.
Or cause a breathlessness I’m unused to.
And sometimes I ache the next morning.
But I think that’s just growing pains.

There does seem to be a disconnect between what I think I look like and what I actually look like, but I chalk that up to the aging learning curve. One does not just know how to be old, one has to figure it out as they go.

Period zits and grandbabies.
Pool parties and 10 pm bedtimes.
Pudding shots and readers in every purse, pocket, room, and occasionally already on my head.
Middle age is the puberty of the next stage.

Even though this growing older thing sometimes kicks my butt, I have to say, I’m really looking forward to the next stage. And at least fifty-two more years of acting my age.