I’ve been anticipating this birthday with pleasure. There’s something comic about 49; fifty has a wiser, more solid sound. I am fifty. I like being fifty.
What I don’t get about turning fifty is the weird look people give me when I admit it. I don’t flatter myself that it’s because I don’t look my age; I think it’s because I’m not SUPPOSED to admit it. Women, and women in the performing arts in particular, are not supposed to age. The rule is: we’re supposed to knock a year or two (or three or more) off our ages; we’re supposed to hide our driver’s licenses; we’re supposed to keep passing off ten year-old headshots at auditions (or else get new ones that are suitably airbrushed); those of us who can afford it are supposed to get nipped, tucked, botoxed and lipo’d.
Who made that rule? I am fifty and proud of it. My one concession to the Cult of Youth is that I color my hair (yeah, that’s a surprise), but I like red hair, so there.
I’m fifty, baby. I’m not old. I’m golden.