You know you鈥檝e hit a certain vintage, when the only good thing people can say about your age is that you should be grateful to be alive. At the turn of 50, nobody ever says that you鈥檙e heading into your 鈥渂est decade yet鈥, like they did when you entered your twenties and flirty thirties. Instead, they tell you, well, suck it up, because what鈥檚 the alternative? You get cards that say 鈥淐ongratulations, you鈥檙e not dead yet鈥. I am into the last three weeks of my forties, and the swift approach to this milestone is weird because of that, and for many other reasons. Half a century. How did that even happen? I don鈥檛 know, but life seems to be speeding up, like the credits at the end of Jurassic Park. Still, it鈥檚 not all bad. When I turned 40, I was gutted. I dreaded it, for some reason. It was like some horrible countdown to Doomsday. I don鈥檛 really feel like that, ten years later. Instead of quivering in a corner, I鈥檓 surprisingly sanguine. I鈥檓 not sure if I鈥檓 in denial or delusional, but part of me feels like I鈥檓 going to own this decade. It makes some sense, as my forties were mainly grim, thanks to lockdown, grief and other life challenges, so it feels as if I鈥檓 on an upward trajectory of sorts, even though I should be careening down the other side of the hill. I鈥檓 not even that bothered that society certainly doesn鈥檛 value 鈥渨omen of a certain age鈥 and that by sharing my number I鈥檓 probably plunging my stock even further into the doldrums. Read it and weep, people. Count the well-earned rings on my gnarly tree trunk. Indeed, while men at 50 enter their silver fox era, when their accumulated knowledge is prized, the opposite is true for women. I am now considered a nickel hedgehog. Still, I鈥檝e not got any more time to waste on worrying about stupid societal failings that I can鈥檛 change. At least I鈥檓 glad that some of the pressures of being in one鈥檚 prime have eased off. You鈥檙e not in the limbo of wondering if you should be starting a family, furthering your career, writing a book, travelling more or just arriving at some preordained stage of achievement. There were too many decisions to make, twenty years ago, which just made me feel overwhelmed and gave me total life paralysis. It鈥檚 easier to be mindful now. There鈥檚 more acceptance that you can鈥檛 do everything. Also, there鈥檚 an understanding that you have total control over making the decisions that you DO make – because doing nothing is also a decision of sorts – right for you. I鈥檓 also pleased that I鈥檓 not as bothered by my current wrinkle quota than I thought I鈥檇 be. I do remember, when my mum was my age – she had us relatively late in life – thinking that I couldn鈥檛 wait to have lines, like she had, because they were gorgeous. Maybe I鈥檝e managed to retain that sense. Also, I was never much of a looker, so I don鈥檛 feel too worried about the middle-aged invisibility thing. I could always float along the street in my own opaque bubble. However, I鈥檓 less keen on the dangly komodo dragon wattle under my chin that wiggles when I鈥檓 angry. It seemed to appear overnight and I鈥檓 thinking of adopting a nattily-tied silk scarf. At least nature cleverly also provides you with floaters and diminished long vision, so you can be oblivious to your newly acquired physical defects. She also seems to have given me an unexpected dose of misguided self confidence. I don鈥檛 know where it came from but, suddenly, I stopped being nervous about walking into a room full of people. So, the approaching spectre of 50 doesn鈥檛 seem that bad, though I suppose it can be the age when your chickens start coming home to roost. That鈥檚 exemplified by the fact that I鈥檒l soon be getting my NHS bowel cancer pack through the post, and an appointment for a mammogram. Yipee. I鈥檓 not faring, healthwise, too bad so far, though I do own one of those weekly pillbox containers, so I鈥檓 not a pristine specimen by any means. However, I am probably feeling physically stronger than I鈥檝e ever been. In fact, I tried one of these new fangled scanning machines at the gym the other day. It measures your body fat and muscle percentages, as well as your overall BMI and even cellular integrity, whatever the heck that means. It said I was 34 years old, and I was floating on air for the rest of the day. However, I know that, because of my vigorous regimen, I pay the price by having the joints of a 95-year-old. And the ligaments. They don鈥檛 tell you that those start to splinter, like the timbers of an old ship. I have discovered that my Achilles heel is my Achilles heels. Still, 34. I鈥檒l take that. The other thing I鈥檓 grateful for, when it comes to turning this age now, is that I鈥檓 living in a time when you can pretty much wear what you want. There are no rules. When my mum was 50, she was heavily into the wool midi skirt and blouse combo that used to be a prerequisite in middle age. Us Generation Xers would never thole that. I鈥檒l continue to wear what I want, as a confidently ancient nickel hedgehog, Read more: 鈥淚 knew moving house would be tough, but I didn鈥檛 expect it to be so embarrassing鈥 Read more: 鈥淚 want to see My Bloody Valentine in Glasgow, though gigs over the age of 40 are a terrible idea鈥