Judy Pike, a dear old friend from from Tufts, turns — and I’m estimating here, based on the fact that she was a senior when I was a freshman — 49 years old today.

Suzanne Evon, an ex-girlfriend and even more endearing current friend, turns 50 this coming weekend.

What happened?  When did we get old?

I mean, I can deal with me getting older, slowing down, having sciatic pains, etc.  My whole life, I’ve been aware that that stuff was going to happen… eventually.  I mean, I can read a play and see a great part for a mid-twenty year old, and say "Oh, wait.  I’m not the right age".  I can do that now.  I used to not be able to.

But my contemporaries getting older?  Turning a half frickin’ century?

Shit, I didn’t see that coming…

I guess, in my mind, 50 is about how old my mom is now.  Which she isn’t but… that’s my mind.  And then everyone else’s age is supposed to fall in accordingly.  It probably doesn’t help that I have teenagers and twenty-somethings in my life who I can relate to (i.e., talk the lingo, or whatever — although realistically I’m probably just a poser to them).

So when I contemplate Que Evon turning 50, something in my head short circuits.

Saving grace is that it doesn’t show in either Que or Judy.  But still… that number… five-zero.  Yikes.