I remember when I was going to be twenty-five. I thought it was so drastic because I was going to be a quarter of a century old. Wait! Stop the presses!

I have to poke fun of that mindset I had. I didn't want to celebrate that day but wasted it being miserable, instead. Now I'd like to go back to that younger version of me and say, "Hey, get a reality check! This is nothing to worry about, so why all the drama?"

I don't remember how I felt when I turned thirty. Now five years the wiser, I probably thought I'd never be that ridiculous again. Piece of cake! Thirty wasn't over the hill by any means!

When I turned forty, I was preparing myself to accepting the inevitable. The month before, I lost my father. If I could get through that, this paled in comparison.  Now middle age had knocked upon my door. I had no choice but to answer.

Now that I'm turning fifty, I'm trying to convince myself, "Dorothy, you'll be alright" but I'm surely not buying it. This time, I have something to write about--a half a century! A quarter more of a century upon that other quarter! What would my twenty-five-year old self think of that?

I'm trying to be okay with it, but I admit I'm struggling pretty badly . It should be a triumph! It should be an accomplishment! I've got things I want to improve on, but there are problems I overcame, places I went and people I have met. Nevertheless, I'm still afraid of the unknown.  Will I end up like my mother, the early stages of dementia, or my father with Alzheimer's?  

Where did the time go when I thought youth was on my side? What will the future hold? I find myself sandwiched between two worlds. One is gone forever and the other has yet to arrive.  I shouldn't be entangled in either one--regret or dread. I am not up for any battle.

I live in a youth obsessed culture. I live in an age when to be "in" is to be faster, prettier and younger. So it is what it is. Like it or not, here comes fifty.