I knew turning 50 would be tough, but I didn't expect it to be so strange

At the turn of 50, nobody ever says that you’re heading into your “best decade yet”, like they did when you entered your twenties and flirty thirties.

Instead, they tell you, well, suck it up, because what’s the alternative? You get cards that say “Congratulations, you’re not dead yet”.

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’t know, but life seems to be speeding up, like the credits at the end of Jurassic Park.

Still, it’s 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’t really feel like that, ten years later.

Instead of quivering in a corner, I’m surprisingly sanguine. I’m not sure if I’m in denial or delusional, but part of me feels like I’m 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’m on an upward trajectory of sorts, even though I should be careening down the other side of the hill.

I’m not even that bothered that society certainly doesn’t value “women of a certain age” and that by sharing my number I’m 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’ve not got any more time to waste on worrying about stupid societal failings that I can’t change.

At least I’m glad that some of the pressures of being in one’s prime have eased off. You’re 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’s easier to be mindful now. There’s more acceptance that you can’t do everything. Also, there’s 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’m also pleased that I’m not as bothered by my current wrinkle quota than I thought I’d be.

I do remember, when my mum was my age - she had us relatively late in life - thinking that I couldn’t wait to have lines, like she had, because they were gorgeous.

Maybe I’ve managed to retain that sense.

Also, I was never much of a looker, so I don’t feel too worried about the middle-aged invisibility thing. I could always float along the street in my own opaque bubble.

However, I’m less keen on the dangly komodo dragon wattle under my chin that wiggles when I’m angry. It seemed to appear overnight and I’m 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’t 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’t seem that bad, though I suppose it can be the age when your chickens start coming home to roost. That’s exemplified by the fact that I’ll soon be getting my NHS bowel cancer pack through the post, and an appointment for a mammogram. Yipee.

I’m not faring, healthwise, too bad so far, though I do own one of those weekly pillbox containers, so I’m not a pristine specimen by any means.

However, I am probably feeling physically stronger than I’ve 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’t 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’ll take that.

The other thing I’m grateful for, when it comes to turning this age now, is that I’m 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’ll continue to wear what I want, as a confidently ancient nickel hedgehog,

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