I still write reminders on my hand, in pen. I have always done this. Lots of kids do, teenagers too. I no longer scribble on my jeans, though, especially since I am now the one who buys the jeans and does the laundry.

I don’t go outside in my socks with no shoes anymore, nor do I slip my shoes on and off without untying them, running down the back of the heel. I still go barefoot around the house. Rarely do I wear slippers. I still love being barefoot outside, love the connection, and don’t care about the dirt. My feet never look summer-pedi-cute. My feet are calloused and utilitarian; long, tough and useful feet.

I don’t drag my hands down in my pockets and rip them anymore. I learned from falling up a set of stairs recently that hands are much more useful if they are at the ready, to catch me if I trip.

I wear proper boots in the winter, but still no hat. Unless it’s a cool, funky, functionless hat. I still don’t wear mittens. I do button up my coat now, and wear a proper coat, instead of three sweaters.

I still occasionally drink too much and make a fool of myself. I still sing, loudly and often, to the amusement and annoyance of my colleagues. I still don’t dance, unless I’ve drank too much and am making a fool of myself.

I occasionally get haircuts now, but I still like my hair long and wild and sexy. I will never get Middle Aged Lady Cut #4. I don’t dye my hair anymore, I like the grey, it makes me feel wise and experienced, except that I don’t feel that way at all. I feel awkward and self-conscious most of the time, although I am just now gradually losing my need to be please people and be accepted. I yam what I yam, and that’s all that I yam.

Can I say that I still love sex? That I feel more passion now than I ever did at 15 or 20. If I love you, I love you with my whole heart, and if I don’t, you probably know without my telling you. That I feel strongly about causes, too, strongly enough to voice my opinion without fear of being a social pariah. I AM a social pariah. I’m okay wid dat.

I like to try to stay current, to be a little edgy, to make people a little bit uncomfortable. I’m brutally honest, mostly, except when I’m not. I tell the truth, but often not the whole truth, particularly if my opinion is hurtful, which it sometimes is. I have prejudices, and I’m ashamed of them, and I try to put them out of my mind. I still swear like a drunken sailor, too.

I’ve developed a more feminine style over the years, have come to embrace my woman-ness. I’m no Kate Moss supermodel; I’m more Janis, Marilyn, Anna Nicole. I’m a granola chomping loudmouthed bombshell. I love cleavage, love the legs, the legs. The legs that made me tower over everyone, the legs that I hid, I now deck out in multi-coloured tights and boots, boots with heels.

I’m still an introvert, though, I can’t spend too much time with people. I love people. People also drain me and drive me up the freaking wall.

I still read and read and read, all kinds of things, things that catch my interest now and then. I still believe in fate and magic, and believe that everything means something. I believe strongly in karma. I believe not-at-all in coincidence.

That’s all. I am who I am. 50 is a number, which I will be soon. I don’t feel it at all.

Maybe I’ll never grow up. That’s okay too.



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