It’s official, and now that the rollercoaster that was this week is over, I can share this bit of news with all of you.  In the midst of the madness, I celebrated my 50th birthday. Yes, I am now a half-century old.

I think I’m supposed to feel different because friends and colleagues keep asking me, “How do you feel?”  Is 50 supposed to feel different than 49?  Am I supposed to be sad?  Contemplative?  Excited?

What I can say, having survived a head injury, the result of a car accident, and then 13 coronary stents, is, “I’m very happy to be here.”  Is that enough?  Should there be more?  According to celebrities who reach an insert-age-here milestone and then write a book and go on talk shows to shout how wonderful it is to be said age, I should be glowing — but the only thing that appears to be glowing is the fifty shades of gray in my hair.

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