Not another birthday. Please!
I’ll be fifty–two tomorrow. Fifty. Two. That can’t be right. Old people are fifty–two. I remember my nan being fifty–two. If you hear of someone dying at fifty–two, you say, “That’s no age, is it?” but you also recognise that they’ve been lucky enough to have had their best years. And I know, I know, “Aging is a privilege denied to many; it’s better than the alternative; you’re never too old and it’s never too late…” blah, blah, blah.
I’m grateful I’m not dead, okay? We can take that as a given.
I just really, really don’t want to look, feel, or be old.
Another birthday. Oh good.
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