Hell No, I Won't Go

Growing old hit me like a ton of vanishing cream one day when I was 50 years, 8 months and 2 days old. It was then that I discovered that I was 50 and everyone else was 19. I knew right away I didn't like it.
Yes, society, against my will and certainly against my better judgement, had suddenly solidified into two distinct segments: people my age (old people) and 19 year olds.
Now, I've read plenty about growing old gracefully; about the depth and wisdom of the older woman; about the "sexy sixties".I listened to Gloria when she told us that a woman is in the prime of her life at age 50. I've witnessed O Magazine's "celebration" of the mature* woman. AARP Magazine tells me that 60 is the age to be.*
Well excuse me O and I beg your pardon Mz Steinam, but what's so wonderful about going to bed in the afternoon when the reason you're meeting there is to nap? What's so thrilling about being called "maam"? What's to celebrate about being complimented for your figure when you can sense the unspoken "for your age"? What, I ask you, is so good about all this acquired wisdom when it includes intimate knowledge of cellulite, wrinkle cream, hot flashes, the ingredients in Metamucil and the phone number of your best friend's plastic surgeon?
Granted, there are parts of my teens and twenties that don't bear repeating - or even close examination. I really don't want to relive all that teenaged angst combined with worries about the opposite sex and searches for who I was and what I wanted to be.** There are a few relationships that, in retrospect, I wish I had skipped (Oh, do I ever wish I had skipped them.), and a few drugs that I wish I hadn't done. Rationally, I know that youth was not the bed of roses I now remember. But I still do not want to grow any older.
Maybe I'm depressing and maybe I'm bitter. Maybe I'm not a good sport. So be it. But while the readers of these magazines that write glowingly about "The Mature Woman" are smiling and celebrating their way into old age, I will be dragging my feet. In fact, I'll be kicking and screaming all the way.

*I hate this term. Let's face it - we're not growing mature. I, for example am probably more childish now than at any other point in my life. I'm growing old, not mature, and really, I don't want either one of these plants in my garden.
**What I wanted to be was a hobo, a job I still believe I'm uniquely suited for.