But what I’m hoping about 50 is that we can remember to fall in love a little bit with the parts of us that reveal our age. To defend them even. Because our age is our reminder, to ourselves as much as anyone, that we’ve seen a thing or two. And tried a thing or two. And mourned a thing or two. And found hope in a thing or two.

And, if we’re lucky, we get to carry all of that into the next few decades, where we’ll see another thing or two and try another thing or two and mourn another thing or two and find hope in another thing or two.

By 50, I’m thinking, we can stop pressing pause until we get our skin/thighs/hair/bellies/neck in check. By 50, we can decide that the fun began a bunch of years ago and it’s going to keep happening without us if we don’t dive in.

A few nights ago I had the opportunity to sit down with Anne Lamott as part of her book tour for “Somehow: Thoughts On Love.” She talked about spending a lifetime learning to quiet her inner critic, the voice that told her she didn't have anything interesting to say or offer to the world. The one that told her she'd never be enough.

She told a story about going shopping with her best friend when they were in their late 30s. Lamott was going on a date. Her friend was dying of cancer.

Lamott came out of the fitting room in a dress and asked her best friend Pammy if her hips looked big.

“You don’t have that kind of time,” Pammy answered, all too aware how fleeting all of this stuff is. All too aware that the size of our hips is never, and will never be, the point.

Time is a thief, and it’s also a gift. And I think it’s OK to let it show on our faces and our bodies.

I hope my face at 50 says: Let’s not waste time. Let’s walk and talk about all the things. Let’s tell the truth. Let’s laugh. Let’s do scary things. Let’s take care of each other.

Surely that’s why we’re still here.

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