Ten weeks ago I wrote about turning 50 in 50 weeks. Then a couple of weeks ago I asked my seniors to write one last poem for the school year. I told them there were no restrictions or requirements for this poem, and I promised I would write one, too. This was the result:
I used to think 50 was somebody’s grandmother.
It was short gray hair and mom jeans with elastic waistbands
It was pearls and holiday sweaters with matching earrings.
It was too old to do much, and too old to care.
It was set in your ways and dignified.
It was strolling toward retirement and singing sweetly in the choir.
But I’m 40 weeks out and barreling down the hill toward 50, full speed ahead.
Old enough to be somebody’s grandmother,
But young enough to run 13 miles.
Keeping my hair long and my skirts scandalously above my knees.
Too silly and flawed to be dignified,
I’m leading the band, singing as loudly as I can!