I am fifty-two.
I’m not 39 again.
I’m not forty-twelve.
I’m fifty-two years old.
I’ve got natural home-grown hair flowing down to the middle of my back, long curly eyelashes, and a rack of awesomeness. My nails are French manicured claws that I grew myself.
I’m also just north of legally blind, and my hearing is changing.
My skin is dry and my gut swings low and I’ve got enough pill bottles to set up a chess board. I can be a bit cranky and sometimes my feet hurt.
I’m a bit slow to rise and quick to tire and drive with the radio off.
And…yeah…I watch cartoons, and eat dessert first, and would rather crawl than fly.
I’ve raised five kids, had two dream weddings, and written countless pages—some good, some not-so-good, some great. I’m living my dream job in my dream house with enough time off to enjoy everything and everybody I work for.
I’m a princess and a queen and a teacher and a mom. I am loved.
No shame in my game. I’m fifty-f’n-two years old!