50… just another number
Turning 50 happened. No fanfare. No trumpets. Just another day marked by a few obligatory “happy birthday” messages that you mostly ignore. I watched other people throwing big celebrations and making a fuss about the number. Sure, 50 is a milestone, but why does it need to be a circus act? It’s just a number, not a performance.
When I hit 30, I bought a fancy watch to celebrate. It was impressive until I dropped it a few years later. That watch now sits broken, a perfect metaphor for aging. At 50, I’m not feeling the urge to buy a new one. Instead, maybe it’s time to spend the money to fix the old watch. Maintenance replaces acquisition. Repairs replace splurges. Welcome to middle age.
Taking care of things seems more important now. Bodies, watches, sanity—they all need a bit more TLC. If anyone cares, well, that’s their problem. I never really cared what most people think. My work, my life, is mostly for me. If others happen to like it, great. If not, that’s fine too. Not everyone needs to be pleased.
Celebration used to mean showing off. Now it means quietly keeping things running. The mundane tasks you ignore when you’re young become the mark of resilience. Fixing a watch is less glamorous than buying one, but somehow it suits 50 better. It’s the subtle art of pretending you’ve got it together while knowing you don’t.
So, turning 50 isn’t about a big deal. It’s about doing the least amount of drama while keeping your old watch ticking. Keep your standards low, your humor dry, and your celebrations private. That’s the real upgrade.
