I’m truly blessed.
I’m turning 50. There, I said it.
Fifty. That round nasty number. And guess what?
It’s really not that bad.
What’s made it less painful? A life of faith, family and friends.
When I reflect on this milestone, I think about Jane Austen (I know I obsess on Jane Austen — but hear me out — and have some respect for your elders).
Back in her day, women frequently died in childbirth; or from the flu; or from any old infection since their form of antibiotics was more along the line of blood-sucking leeches.
In fact, poor Emily Bronte’s life was snuffed out early due to common unsanitary conditions. She simply drank a glass of contaminated water (the source being a runoff from the church’s graveyard) while attending her own brother’s funeral in 1848. She rejected ‘medical treatment” saying she’d have “no poisoning doctor” near her. (Actually, I’ve felt the same way at times).
Anyway, where am I going with this?
What does this have to do with turning 50?
I’m grateful to be alive.