What happens when you turn 50? Freedom, that's what

Something is slowing me down as I negotiate the narrow, uneven footpath leading from the cool Italian restaurant to my parking spot outside a row of immaculately restored terraces. Looking down, I realise my black elasticised petticoat has fallen down around my ankles and tangled itself around my silver boots. Laughing, I step out of this undergarment, playfully kicking it in the air before shoving it into my handbag.

I couldn’t care less how many people have now seen my sensible beige “granny whacker” underwear through my transparent frock. And it would be a fair few, given the restaurant I’ve just left has an expansive glass frontage that I slowly sashayed past. Perhaps this is what being 50 is all about: literally not giving a toss what people think of you any more.

I’m no longer interested in fitting in.Credit: iStock

I’m now a few weeks into the big five-zero and ambivalent about making a mountain out of this supposed milestone: no party for me, as I don’t enjoy being the centre of attention. The cliché of being fabulous and 50 doesn’t fit, and the idea of being feisty and 50 doesn’t do it for me, either. Frankly, the word feisty is a lazy adjective used to describe women who refuse to fit into a neat box.

As I enter this bold new decade, I’ve discarded all the boxes I wasted way too much of my early life trying to fit into. There had been some nicely wrapped boxes in my 20s and 30s, the decades when I defined myself solely through my career, a career that was about being shiny, happy and bulletproof.

But as I’ve aged, I’ve realised that career, and life, are never about climbing a ladder and breaking ceilings. Rather, they’re about making missteps and zigzagging as you take the brave, scary road to reinvention.

I’ve had a raft of job titles over the years: weather girl, news presenter, breakfast TV host, unemployable, weekend news presenter, narrator for a Sondheim musical, morning show panellist, fledgling dancer, author and Crap Housewife. Each of these roles has brought me closer to myself and helped me find the confidence and courage to share my vulnerabilities, failings and flaws.

Once a career-obsessed perfectionist, I’ve discovered that success is measured in the joy you hold in your heart, not your job title.

Jessica Rowe, author of Diary of a Crap Housewife

Getting to this age has been about shedding my skin and my protective layers, and realising I want to chase joy, love, honesty and meaningful work. I’ve unlocked what really matters to me, not what should matter.

Once a career-obsessed perfectionist, I’ve discovered that success is measured in the joy you hold in your heart, not your job title. And what brings me joy is the love I have for my girls, my husband, my family and my friends.

The older I get, the less I enjoy looking back; I don’t want to get lost in what I think I’ve “achieved”. Surely the best is yet to come? I want to keep learning, pushing myself out of my comfort zone. So what does the future hold? What will I be doing in a year’s, two years’, five years’ time? Where will I be when I’m 60? Who knows, but I’m hoping it involves travel, adventure, an audience and laughter. Lots of laughter.

Already this year has shown how much our lives can change because of circumstances out of our hands. But what I can control is with whom I decide to spend my precious time, people who get me and make me feel good about where and who I am. Life is too short to spend it with those negative ninjas who, you realise, you never actually liked very much.

I’m no longer interested in fitting in. My 40s were the happiest time of my life and I have a good feeling about my 50s. I love getting older, although my vanity means I will keep indulging in sprinklings of Botox and whatever other necessary skin-deep treatments I need to keep putting my best face forward in the world. So watch out, the best is yet to come!

This article appears in Sunday Life magazine within the Sun-Herald and the Sunday Age on sale July 19.