Fifty of one or half-dollar of the other?

"Oooh! You have a birthday coming up!" the saleswoman oozed ever so sweetly.

Uh-huh.

The birthday she referred to while checking my driver's license was the legendary 5-0, and it's coming at me with the speed of a bullet. If only my shoulders, knees and back still moved that fast...but, I digress.

Unlike many of my peers, I had no trouble with 40. For some reason, 35 was pretty traumatic, but 40 was just plain fun.

50? Uh, I don't think so.

Fifty is the age where I place people when I am vaguely indicating they're old.
"OH, I don't know, I think he's in his fifties, or something...."

Fifty was the age of my parents friends. The age at which you used to start contemplating your retirement funds. (Now it's apparently 24.) Fifty was the age when dads in our neighborhood started wearing Hawaiian shirts, black socks and Birkenstocks when they were barbecuing out in their back yards. For gosh sakes, my Aunt Julia, (a tale that I will save for another day,) was in her fifties! Now, that I think of it, Aunt Julia was perpetually in her fifties. In my mind's eye, I always picture her the same way: a short, round little woman with a gray house dress, flat shoes and gray hair in rollers.

Ladies and gentlemen, 50 means Grayness.

Fifty is a half-dollar, a half century, more than a half of a lifetime. People who are fifty drive nice cars, take cruises to the Caribbean and give out pretty good candy on Halloween. At least that is how I remember it.

I'm not sure my life looks very much like Fifty.

What about you? Any thoughts about Fifty? (Even if you aren't joining me on the precipice...)