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.