This is 50

Life has its black notes and its white notes, so says Bridget Jones.

I once wrote a piece about having Bridget Jones moments and regaled readers with tales of me falling into a trash can at a Hunt Ball and announcing with great enthusiasm that “I have gas!” while doing a potty dance in line at an Exxon. Both true stories—and foundations for my humility.

But Bridget Jones in present day is an aging single mom—and so am I.

I turned 50 this year. This is 50.

This is 50. For better or for worse. Unbridled and authentic. Thriving, not surviving. PC Natalie Fox

My 40th proclamation article, as published in the Middleburg Eccentric, was penned as a somewhat newlywed—pre-children, pre-career, and well, pre-Me. I wrote about how I over plucked my eyebrows in the ’90s and how the discarded hairs reincarnated on my chin. That’s still true. But now they come with friends that my aging eyes sometimes miss in the 10x magnifying mirror with multi-hued fluorescent lights. The struggle is real.

In the same article, I also wrote about fearing incontinence in my 50s from laughing and how I was doomed to wet knickers. I laugh a lot. I jump on trampolines. I do cartwheels. And I’ve leaked. Ask any mom how this happens. I have minimized the need for Depends with the help of a late-night TikTok purchase—a phallic-type widget that allows you to play Tetris with your Kegel muscles when inserted. I’m a high scorer. I never thought I’d need PT for my undercarriage, but here I am. But I don’t piss myself.

I spent the second half of my 40s undergoing many operations and IVF procedures to have children, getting separated and subsequently divorced from my husband, and rebuilding. Everything. I’ve been Confirmed and have a restored, devoted faith. I’ve rebuilt and relaunched my career. I’ve lost 70 lbs. I feel fucking fantastic, and I’m told it shows. And thankfully, thanks to a good business year and the recent relocation of my mom-aries, I’m riding high like a 20-year-old. I’ll take it as I move forward.

Over the past year, I fell hard for a person who didn’t share the same feelings on the same timeline, which is a complicated clusterfuck of a story. I felt like I was being Punk’d by God when I was ready to give and recieve love again with a special person. It was a gut punch, but at the end of the day, just another brick in the wall. They say dating after divorce is about finding the least fucked-up person to share time with, and I’m realizing that the hard way—which tends to be my style. But even at 50, there are lessons to be learned, and I enter my next chapter wiser and with clearer vision. And very long arms from resisting wearing readers.

However, lessons need to be taught as well. The MILF phenomenon is real. Truly. At 50, I have shoes older than some of my suitors wishing to take out Mrs. Robinson. But they have no idea who Mrs. Robinson is. It’s bizarre. But the thought sure puts a spring in the step of a broken-hearted bitty. Fifty-year-old men toy with 30-year-old women—why shouldn’t I?

My children are  my biggest accomplishment and source of pride. They are six and frequently complimented for being awesome little people. They free-range life and brighten every room. Hands down, that is the best feeling ever. They do outnumber me and are quite smart and slightly mischievous. I often say one day I’ll be found duct-taped to my office chair with an apple in my mouth and my car missing as the Wonder Twins cruise the strip in Middleburg solo, blaring the soundtrack to K-Pop Demon Hunters.

The only regret I have at 50 is that I couldn’t make my marriage work. We are both better people now, and our destiny was achieved with our children. We’ve rediscovered our stride as friends—which was our origin—and are rebuilding. It’s a beautiful place to be, in spite of the legal bills and awkward holiday schedules. We’ve kept things about the kids, as it should be, and co-parent beautifully. Touch wood.

The theme of my 50th year has been lemon-oriented—from ade to drops and all the yellow in between. It’s very symbolic for me, and I’ll continue to let the sweet override the sour of life every day here out.

This is 50. For better or for worse. Unbridled and authentic. Thriving, not surviving.

“I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they’re right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together." — Marilyn Monroe