It’s my birthday month, so obviously, age is on my mind. Especially this auspicious one; 1972 was a very good year. Flo became a mother for the first time at 30. Imagine. How I wish I could have that conversation with her now.

 

The ama2000s have recently come onto my radar. If you don’t know, it’s the cohort born from 2000 onwards and they’ve lauded themselves as such. They seem to have a penchant for slandering those who arrived here before them on social media.

 

Some may call it rude. I find it mildly entertaining. Only because my children are ama2000s (until they give themselves another title) and besides, they are the youth who must contend with leadership from Jurassic Park. There’s a total disconnect. I cringe whenever I hear a Minister spewing verbal diatribe or blustering about like an idiot. Bheki Cele is the poster child.

 

So, imagine the impatience of a babe born at the turn of the millennium. Let’s extend a moment of silence to our youth. They’re going through a lot.  My only hope is that their online bravado develops beyond spineless virtual yapping into substantial leadership that will stop Mandela from turning in his grave and allow him to finally rest in peace.

 

But back to me. This one is about me. This month is about me.

 

Not only does the voice in your head not age, but neither does your spirit.

 

If you’ve ever had a thought or a conversation in your mind, you will know that the voice in your head doesn’t age. Prove me wrong. Not only does the voice in your head not age, but neither does your spirit. How incredible is that?

 

Unfortunately, many move through this earthly journey somewhat constrained by the vestiges of time, the aging body, and the like. I’m not immune to it. I’m up for any healthy living, anti-aging, youthful glowing what-what. I call it self-care.

 

But there’s only so much that one can do to halt the natural evolution of the human body. Unless you’re Benjamin Button or an uber-rich immortalist trying to defy death and live forever. The rest of us mere mortals have an entry and exit date.

 

We’re all still standing. All eight billion of us.

 

Fifty is not forty or thirty, new or old. Those age analogies are tired. Actually. We have pundits and trend forecasters who predict that the first generation to reach 120 years is alive today. That’s the ama2000s, you, me. We’re all still standing. All eight billion of us.

 

The Bible and other holy books are littered with men and women who lived to ‘ripe’ old age. What happened to us? When did we start to despise growing older? When did it become an albatross around our necks?

 

I’m taking all the next 12 months to celebrate this milestone, starting today. And no, there will be no wild parties, hysteria, ostentatious displays, and the like. Just me doing the things that I like. Quietly. Daily. For myself. And those that I can touch.

 

It’s not about being as old as I feel.

 

On the 13th I will reach the fifth floor. It’s a gift I can never ever take for granted. Flo and Bronwyn didn’t make it.  My birthday wish from me to me? It’s not about being as old as I feel.

 

Fifty and fierce. Fifty and fine. Fifty is just fine. It just is. No need to sugarcoat it. No need to sell it back to me or anyone else. No need for validation.  

 

Cheers to the queers, applause to the menopause! Let’s live our truth.

 

Happy birthday to me! And all the October flames.