I’m 54 And It’s Not Funny
I recently turned 54. I didn’t want to turn 54. I tried hard not to. It happened anyway.
I recently turned 54. I didn’t want to turn 54. I tried hard not to. It happened anyway.
My birthday is in January which, growing up in New York meant that I never got to wear a bikini or float around a pool on an inflatable swan unless I flew at least two-and-a-half hours south. Seasonal affective disorder and hypothermia were always an integral part of my birthday, which merely added to the not-joy of getting older.
54 is not a good age because it’s one year away from 55, which is five years away from 60, which is ten years away from 70. Are we just supposed to continue doomscrolling and act like this isn’t happening? To distract myself, I decided to read my will. My will was written over seven years ago, and like most people, I never read it. It talked about my two dogs and the person I was leaving them to, but it needs some updating because one of those dogs died five years ago, and the person I was leaving them to died two years ago. None of that is funny; however, this excerpt made me cackle:
The Trustee may use trust property to reimburse caretaker for expenses associated with Blackie and Jackson and offspring of Blackie and Jackson.
