A Reluctant Traveller

Statistics tell us that 76 million Baby Boomers in America are presently between the ages of 42 and 60. If you accept age 50 as the general point of entry into "midlife", and if you also accept that Americans tend to be phobic about aging, then we're already knee-deep in 50-somethings. Thousands more join the throng every day. Some quickly notice they've entered a different life route; others take a year or two, or even much more, to realize. But by their mid-fifties, nearly all have figured out that they are on what I call Route 55.

I know this because a few months ago it dawned on me that I'm there right now. I'm probably still in some stage of denial about being here. I'm still wondering why I couldn't just stay on the major expressway I've ridden for so many years, where I knew about the potholes and obstructions and how to endure the traffic clogs and snarls that seemed more frequent the further I went.

I had a mishap or two on that highway, back when I was new to the fast lane and didn't know how to spot trouble before I ran right into it. Nothing really serious; just enough to keep me a little wary. But it had been a long time since I'd had even a close call, much less an incident. I had come to believe it was a pretty sure thing that I'd reach my intended destination with no problems. I thought I had it all mapped out, and my route sure didn't involve any slow-poke road like this.

Yet here I am. Not many people like this road at first, maybe because it feels so strange to realize you're on it, and also because the way you get there can be quite painful. I didn't pay much mind to the few detour signs warning about this byway. Maybe if I had, I could have found a way to stay on the big lanes. But now I guess I'll need a new map: reluctant or no, it looks like I'm cruising Route 55.