fifty is the new fifteen

In some sort of bizarre Desmond-ian time toggle, I am being forced to relive my geeky adolescence. As if it wasn't bad enough going through it the first time.

I have blemishes (really they're pimples, but I'm trying to be delicate). True, they're interspersed with wrinkles, but they're there, nonetheless.

I feel weird in my clothes.

I look at other girls' hair and wish mine looked like theirs.

I want to stay up late and sleep in late.

I want to eat junk food.

I am following closely who gets voted off American Idol.

I have a special blanket and I don't want to share it.

I feel all lazy and unmotivated.

I worry about fitting in.

I care about what people think of me.

I want people to like me.

I sent out a chain letter and now I'm embarrassed about it. OK, it was an e-mail recipe exchange, but the premise was the same. The only thing that was missing was the part that said, "If you break this chain, you will be cursed with split ends." One of my friends sent back an e-mail that said her life was too crazy right now to do this kind of thing and suddenly I'm, like, duh. What was I thinking? What am I, like, a dork? Like, ugh, seriously. (*rolling eyes and smacking forehead*)

Just as quickly as you can say, "I've got a brand new pair of roller skates, you've got a brand new key," all the insecurities and self-doubt of my awkward teenage years resurfaced. I don't think they were ever buried very deeply, quite frankly.

My daughter is fond of telling me about these incredible celebrity women who are SO delighted to be fifty. They've never felt more confident. They're sure of who they are. They feel more alive, more secure in their unique strengths than ever before.

I don't get it.

Somehow the Grow-Up Fairy has passed right over me without stopping to dispense any maturity whatsoever.

Here's a series of phone calls that really happened just the other day, involving my brother, my mother, and me:

Brother: Mom just called. She's really upset about that thing you did/said. I told her she should talk to you about it.
Me (calling Mom): I understand you're really upset about that thing I did/said.
Mom: No, I'm fine. I told him not to tell you.
Me: Why did you tell him not to tell me, if you're fine?
Mom: Because it was just between me and him. I'm going to call him now and tell him he shouldn't have told you.
Me: Don't call him. This is between me and you, if I upset you.
Mom: No. I'm hanging up right now and I'm going to call him. Now I'm mad at him.
Me (calling Brother): Mom says she's fine, but she's going to be calling you to tell you you shouldn't have told me that she told you she was upset.
Brother: You didn't believe her, did you?

If I hadn't been so worked up over the whole thing, I would have noticed the uncanny similarity between this and 9th grade with me, Jeannette and Lucinda. I can almost picture the scene in the lunchroom cafeteria -- "I told her not to tell you that I had told her that you like him but you don't like her. If she finds out that I know that you know, she will think that you told me after she told you not to tell." "I won't tell. Just don't let her know that I told you I like him. Are you going to eat that Ding Dong?"

Geeesh.

Maybe I'm just a late bloomer, and by the time I turn 70 I will have found my wisdom and stability. Either that or I'll be too senile to care.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put some new rubber bands on my braces.