When my mom turned 50, I remember a massive summertime party along the Swedish southern coastline, Copenhagen likely visible in the distance, guests sipping whites and reds and cocktails exquisitely planned to pair with an evening obviously filled with delicacies.
My sisters were there, I think. Details are fuzzy. There were speeches. Laughter. Tears, maybe. But most importantly that amazing "it's July and the entire country is on vacation" vibe that Europeans have expertly mastered.
Somehow 2023 is my 50th.
Despite sounding ludicrous, it's true. And like most others, I'm clearly much too young to be this old.
Reflecting on the ifs and when's and how's and whys, remembering goals and aspirations and dreams and fantasies, I keep coming back to now. As in, it's now or never. Today. This moment. Because time, in all its intricate and unassuming ways, is no longer creeping. It's flying. Soaring. And the only way to experience it all is to keep up.
I've got several months until the official day. Lots of time to ponder and prevail. Perhaps even plan a miniature event. As in: let's devour the best charcuterie platter possible and enjoy only the fanciest wines.
But mostly: remember that the question of the hour is not, what's next? But rather, what's now?
