Middle Age

Walking out of the craft store today I caught a glimpse of someone. She looked familiar, but wasn't quite who I thought she was. A second look at my reflection, and yes, it was me.
I am a middle-aged woman.
And it shows.
It's funny, I don't think of myself as nearly 50. Good grief, I can remember when my Mom was fifty! But here I am, almost at the top of the hill, ready for the great ride down.
And while I remember the climb, it just doesn't seem possible that so much time has passed.
I don't think of myself as a mother of adults. But three of my four children are adults. My oldest son is almost the age I was when he was born. My younger son, almost the age I married. My daughter, the same age I was when I started college.
How could my baby be 14?
I'm not a young mother anymore. My sister is a grandma. My aunts and uncles are all gone, as is my father. My mom is 82.
And all of this happened in the blink of an eye.
Really. I'm serious. It happened that fast.
I'm not ready to curl up and wither away. In fact, I'm at the cusp of a whole new chapter in my life, one that includes rediscovering myself, my talents, my interests. One in which my husband and I will soon have all the time in the world together.
Alone.
Wow.
In some ways, I can't believe how much living has taken place in these 26 years of married life. All the holidays, birthdays, vacations, pets, happiness, tears, living and loving. And it's definitely not over, just, well, evolving.
So that middle-aged woman? The one who dyes her hair, wears sneakers and footsies with capris, and is kind of thick around the middle?
That is me.
And you know what?
I like her.