It occurs without warning. One day you’re looking in the bathroom mirror, really looking at yourself and you notice a wrinkle or two. There also are a few gray hairs that weren’t there yesterday, were they? You take a hand mirror and look at your reflection from behind and notice some thinning of your hair.

When did that happen? That doesn’t look like me.

Face it, kiddo; you’re not 30 anymore. Heck, you’re not even 40 either. In fact, you’re staring into the Great Divide, preparing to cross the Grand Canyon of aging into the unforgiving territory of turning 50.

Fifty?! I don’t feel almost 50. I remember my dad when he was 50, and I thought he was an old man.

But the calendar doesn’t lie. Later this year, I will be 50 years old. Middle-aged? Yeah, if I live to be 100. According to the federal government, which tracks this sort of thing, average life expectancy for males in the United States is about 74 years. That means I’m nearly 13 years beyond middle age!

I know … there are older folks out there who think we so-called “Baby Boomers” act like we’re the first ones ever to face getting older. And there are younger folks who feel they have heard enough about Baby Boomers and their sagas.

Well, my response is … hey, this is personal; I’m the one facing 50 this year!

When I was a teen-ager, a phrase we often heard was “Don’t trust anyone over 30,” as if we all turned into clueless geezers and forgot what it was like being young after we hit that pivotal age. But turning 30 didn’t change anything. Neither did reaching 40.

But getting to 50 comes with the realization that you probably won’t be around as long in the future as you have been in the past. It is like being in the third quarter of the Super Bowl: More than half of it is over and you have to reassess your game plan, look at where you are, what you’re doing, and figure out how you’re going to reach your goals before the clock runs out.

And there’s no “sudden-death” overtime.

I’ve read that many of us “Baby Boomers” act and feel younger than previous generations. Today, age 50 is not as old as it used to be. As Jimmy Buffett says, “I’m growing older but not up; my metabolic rate is pleasantly stuck.”

Just look at a short list of folks who are turning 50 this year: Oprah Winfrey, who looks better than ever; Christie Brinkley, who will always looks good; the ever youthful Jerry Seinfeld and Dennis Quaid; the distinguished Denzel Washington; “Little Opie/Richie Cunningham” Ron Howard (well, OK, he did lose most of his hair but he wears those ball caps which makes him look youthful); and Howard Stern (who has lots of hair and apparently thinks he’s still an immature teenager cracking wise in the boys’ locker room).

These folks aren’t like the 50-year-olds that were around back in the days when we were told not to trust anyone over 30. Heck, they probably were among the ones telling us that!

What makes 50 such a defining year is because it is “a half-century.” Those words have an impact. It’s the same difference between ordering an eight-ounce steak and a “half-pounder.”

There are still several months between my half-century mark and me. Nonetheless, I’m getting prepared. I’m at the gym before 6 a.m. (some mornings), I’ve switched to unsweetened iced tea (which tastes unAmerican, not to mention unSouthern) and now I’m usually in bed before David Letterman and Jay Leno pretend to be Johnny Carson (whose show was essentially the only thing on late-night TV back in the years B.C. (“before cable”).

I realize I’m no longer 18 or 19, which sometimes doesn’t seem all that long ago, but still I’m surprised by what can happen to a person in a mere … 30 years. Three decades ago, I jogged about five miles a day, 2.5 in the mornings and another 2.5 in the evenings, a routine I began in my high-school football days. The other morning I jogged (huffed and puffed, actually) down Eighth Street for almost a mile until visions of an oxygen tank connected to my La-Z-Boy forced me to turn around and limp back home.

I felt like an out-of-shape Rocky (“Yo, Adrian!”) Balboa trying to run up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art for the first time. But come this fall, when my bout begins with Father Time, I’ll be ready. Like Rocky, I plan to make it up those steps … or at least jog down the street and back!



Frank Sayles Jr. is publisher of The Tifton Gazette. You may reach him at frank.sayles@gaflnews.com