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Thirty years ago, the thought of turning 50 terrified me. What would I look like? How much gray hair would I have, how many wrinkles? Would I be a cool 50, or a frumpy 50? I mean, really, 50 just seemed so old.

Now that it’s almost here, it’s much less terrifying. To be honest, I’m kind of looking forward to it.

Anyone who has known me more than a week, or who has followed me on Facebook or read this sporadic blog (how many times have I said I’d be a much more regular blogger?) knows how much I’ve absolutely loved my 40s. I’ve done things I never thought I would do – in my 40s I’ve published three books (two ghostwritten and one as co-author); I’ve had relationships come and go but learned a little bit more about myself and what I want with each one; I’ve watched my children graduate high school, try college, decide they didn’t like it and then come back years later and decide the time was now right.

In my 40s I took chances – I left a 22-year journalism career and entered the world of “strategic communications”;  I let go of the “good girl” rules I followed (kind of) as a young woman and learned to love life and to live with no regrets; I’ve realized that I get to choose my circle so I’ve let go of bad-for-me relationships; I’ve learned not to let anything good go unsaid and confessed my true feelings for someone who has been in and out of my life for more than a decade, with no expectations.

The 40s have been great, but now I’m ready for the next chapter. So ready, in fact, that if anyone asked my age over the last 271 days, I’d say I was “almost 50.” Poor 49 doesn’t even get a swan song – it just gets skipped over to “almost 50.”

I knew I’d use this space to bring 50 in somehow – other than to post when and where I’ll be celebrating with whoever wants to help me “cross over” – and I think I’ve settled on a 100-day countdown to 50.

Of course, me being me, I’m late. So it will be 100 days’ worth of why I’m looking forward to 50 crammed into 94 days. (You know you’re not surprised.)

So, here we go:

100. Over the years I’ve learned to regret nothing. Everything I’ve done – good and bad – has led me exactly to this point, and honestly, I’m in a good place. Sure, I could have more money or live in a nicer apartment or condo, but that’s just material stuff. I love my job, I’m proud of my kids, I have great relationships – I’m happy.

99. I’ve learned how to love myself – who I am and what shape I am. Yes, I’ll always try to be just 50 pounds lighter, but I’m not going to obsess about it anymore. I’m eating right, I love to walk, and to bike (when my knee is dog-injury-free), but I also love cookies. And cheese. And chips and salsa. I’m going to enjoy life and if you can’t handle me because I’m not a size 4 and I don’t share your obsession with getting there, then it’s your loss.

98. I’m a dog person AND a cat person. Deal with it. They’re part of my family, and we’re a package deal. And sometimes I do feel guilty if I’ve left them alone too long.

97.I make no excuses for my “potty mouth,” but there is a time and a place for its use. I don’t think my swearing makes me any less of a person, but I will always respect your comfort level with such language. To me swearing can be like smoking – I don’t mind if you do it, but I don’t want to breathe in that air, and I understand that you may not want to hear those words.

96. My 50 won’t look a lot like my mom’s 50. Mom’s 50 was great, but it was different. She was a grandma, for one thing – I’m not. She rode in the passenger seat, listened to music at a volume level of maybe 4, worked all day and came home to do laundry, make dinner, nag on my sister about homework. I’m in the driver’s seat, I still blare music out the car window and sometimes belt out the tune, too. I work all day and sometimes go out for drinks with friends or go home and have popcorn for dinner.

95. I’ve stopped sweating the small stuff – and there’s a lot of small stuff. Worry is wasted energy, especially if you are worrying on something over which you have no control.

94. I’m OK on my own. I’ve been divorced for 15 years and while there have been a few long-term relationships, I know now I’m good with me. That doesn’t mean I’m not open to a partner – I love being in a partnership, having that “team” feeling – but I’m getting more selective of who I’m letting in.

**Side note: There really will be a “crossing over” event in mid-June, time and location to be determined, but open to anyone who cares to come. More details to come … 

**Many thanks to my friend Barbara Barrows for her artistic talents on the illustration

I’m a dog lover, there’s no question about that. I can’t remember a time in my life – other than the year or two we were in an apartment in Minneapolis when I was 4 – that there hasn’t been at least one dog in my life (the actual canine kind, not the male human kind – that’s another post altogether). I didn’t have a dog with me when I was in college, but there was always a faithful pal waiting for me when I’d go home.

And these dogs weren’t just any dogs – they were big dogs. Always. Growing up we mostly had German shepherds or German shepherd mixes, and then when I got married we had Labs, Lab mixes and Newfoundlands.

I love dogs.

It’s no surprise, then, that I also love those sappy videos you see on Facebook, how this dog was saved from homelessness, or how this dog abuser got schooled by a group of old ladies who defended the dog, or how this dog found his way home when he got lost on vacation. I can’t help it – I always watch them, and I always cry. And I always think, “What a great story.”

This morning Mia and I had one of those stories of our own.

Mia is my 8-year-old Newfie, and our morning walks are typically about a quarter of a mile – she needs to walk a bit to “get things moving,” and Lord knows I could use the extra steps. So we went out for our walk, a little before 7 a.m., and as we’re coming back a semi pulls up to the stop sign and kills the engine. The driver leans out his window and asks about Mia’s age, then just climbs out of the truck – it was stopped in the northbound lane – and comes over to chat.

We’re kind of used to this, as I’m sure many people with giant breeds are. People stop all the time, asking if they can pet our dog. Even more people drive by and keep their eyes on the dog. I’ve had several people call me “the lady with that big dog.” They’re kind of a novelty to most people, and it’s that difference that brought Mia to us. We had lost our first Newfie to old age six years ago today, and in March 2010 I just happened to see an ad that read, “Free to good home, 3-year-old female Newfoundland.” I called about the dog – the owners apparently thought it would be neat to have a giant breed until they actually HAD a giant breed. They weren’t really prepared for the space she needed, the food she ate, the poops she took – any of it. So they decided to get rid of her. If I didn’t take her, they said, they were going to put her in a shelter.

I had a Lab mix at the time, but we made it work. We had to.

So back to this morning and the truck driver.

The driver knelt down and petted Mia as he asked me where I’d gotten her. I told him she was a rescue of sorts, and related the story. He then told me that he and his wife used to breed Newfoundlands. They had had two females and a male, and loved the gentle giants, but when the girls died and they sold their home, they decided not to get a new dog until they got settled. That’s still not happened, he said, but it’s something they still talk about. For someday.

He asked how old Mia was, and where her first family lived. For the life of me I couldn’t remember their last name, so that didn’t help him place them.

I was kind of struck at the patience Mia was showing. She’s an attention whore, to be sure, so she loves being petted. But usually she’s trying to give kisses or is moving around or showing other small signs of minor anxiety – as if saying, “Yes, this person can pet me, but only for so long.” With the truck driver, however, she was calm, just sitting there basking in the attention.

Then it happened. The driver asked me if I knew what her first family had named her. (At this point I still hadn’t told him her name.)

I shrugged and said, “Well, sure, we just kept the name – she’s Mia.”

His eyes grew wide and teared up all at the same time. He choked up a bit, then asked, again, how old she was. I told him she’s 8 this year.

“She’s one of my pups, I just know she is,” he said. He and Mia were now looking eye to eye. “We had a Mia about that long ago – she’s one of Myrtle’s pups.”

About that time traffic started to come up on his truck and he needed to go. I didn’t get his name, he didn’t get mine – but we didn’t need it. He and Mia reconnected – I could see it in her when he was petting her – and then we all went back to our regular days.

Our steps were just a little bit lighter.