Hitting a fifty

Whenever I thought about becoming fifty in my long gone youth, I had pictured myself as this serene, respected figure whose words of wisdom youth listened to with awe. (Of course, I also pictured myself with a full head of hair, albeit grey, but let us not get into that now.) This image of being the center of respectful attention was probably engendered by wishful thinking since, all my life, I was one of those who kept squeaking, "Say listen..." and find that, to others, your voice seemed to be in decibels that could not be heard by human ears.

Now I AM fifty. The problem, however, is that not much seems to have changed - at least not for the better. I still put up my hands and plead in vain for attention as the conversation swirls all over me and around me and even through me as it seems some times. The only thing that has changed is that fact that you appear positively clownish doing that at fifty when you merely seemed a shade silly when you were doing it as a kid.

Par for the course, I suppose, considering that my knowledge has also stayed right where it was in my youth. I am as ignorant about the rates per square inch of every plot of land in my city - a subject on which all my companions seem to wax eloquent these days. Nor can I claim a vast increase in my knowledge of the recent gyrations of the stock-markets and the reasons thereof, which everyone in my vicinity seems to be dancing in step with if you listened to them (and just half a step behind, going by the impact on their bank balances. They seem to buy just before the market crashes and sell just before it recovers with uncanny accuracy) As for cars, all I know is that they have four wheels and an engine - and, that, apparently is mere kindergarten stuff. So, it is not really a wonder that I am not the fount of wisdom that I had thought I would become with age.

I have reconciled myself to the fact now. After all, they do say that 'Forty is the new Twenty" and, by those standards Fifty must be the new Ten and, so, it is no wonder I am still being treated as I used to be at ten. By the time I hit Sixty, I'll be practically a new-born baby and can expect rattles and feeding bottles for birthday presents. I shudder to think of what I will be if I ever outlive sixty.