By Claudia Caramiello 
I am planning a fabulous party. Campy invitations will be sent out. The food shall be Italian. There will be a lemon and blackberry fondant cake festooned with macarons and sprinkles. A color palette of bubble gum pink sounds fitting. My outfit—sequined, a little outrageous, and obviously, low cut. I will be surrounded by family, friends, and coworkers who love me, care about me, and find me wildly amusing. This is the only way I want to celebrate being alive for five decades.
Fifty. It sounds old. The number doesn’t exactly conjure up images of fresh-faced, sexy people. And if you say 50 is the new 30, I’ll slap you silly.
Fifty is an age when you hear that someone has had a heart attack, and you’re not completely shocked. It’s an age where teenagers find you ancient, getting out of a Mustang or pool float is humiliating, and you’re eligible for a shingles vaccine.
You will make noise when you sit on the couch. Ditto for getting up. Applying eyeliner becomes a challenge. Remember when you could just seamlessly swipe that inky black pencil across your lids? Now it’s like trying to color on a tissue. Let’s not even discuss what’s happening with your neck.
A sneeze, out in public, may ruin your day and underwear. The boobs now resemble tennis balls in tube socks, the butt, a Yule log. Chin hair is coarser, TikTok influencers will annoy you, and Ian the rapper will confuse you. And these are just the superficial trappings of aging.
The average lifespan is around 76 years. This means the majority of my life is over. Sure it’s possible I could live into my 90s if I eat right and exercise, but I can’t stop eating Sicilian pizza, and I haven’t seen the inside of a gym in over a year.
Having more life behind you than in front of you is both a profound gift and burden. Grappling with mortality is formidable. It hits you during mundane moments. One second you’re cleaning the stove, the next having a full-blown panic attack over burial or cremation. Fifty forces you to confront your mortality, your faith, and your life. Is God really there? Will I ever write that book?
But on the other side of the coin, oh, what a privilege it is to make it to 50. I think about all the sunsets I’ve gotten to see, trips to the beach, people I’ve hugged, and the children I raised. I am lucky enough to be on the planet at the same time as Twenty One Pilots, Britbox, Tom Ford lipstick, body positivity, and Jeni’s ice cream.
At almost 50, I truly have grown comfortable in my own skin. In my 30s, I used to cry if I gained weight, feel awkward if my mother commented on my outfit, and worried a lot about skincare. Now these things are meaningless. Yes, I may someday give Botox a whirl, and adore push-up bras and makeup, but I no longer harbor those awful feelings of self-hatred.
Getting older is not without fear and wrinkles and arthritic knees, but it is also not without joy and contentment. It took me 50 years to learn how to love myself. And if that’s not worth celebrating, I don’t know what is.
by Christine June 
by Lauren Dunn 
by Whitney Fleming 
