It turns out I like being 48. Forty six as an age was of slight concern. It was a matter of waiting to see if I made it to forty seven. After all, husband dying two days before his forty seventh birthday was weighing heavily on my mind. The weirdness of reaching an age where death is a real thing that happens to normal people. I didn't think 47 was particularly amazing, no real euphoria about making it that far, just life as usual. But 48. Wow. I like 48. I am bloody near to 50 years old. I mean, I can smell it. I can feel its approach and almost taste it.
But I'm 48 and I never knew it would feel this good. My body still does stuff, everything I ask of it. I can mountain bike without damaging myself, do four hours of heavy digging and lifting in the garden the next day and still get up and ride 45 miles the following day. My body is still working, that's pretty cool, eh? In fact, no really noticeable slowing up from a decade ago. Not only will it do all that stuff, but it can run further than it ever could at any point in my 30s. Pretty neat, I'm thinking.
So I enter the late 40s with a hell yeah kind of approach. A feeling of freedom and recklessness because I'm not broken yet.
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