I got along brilliantly with 40, but I haven't bonded with you at all. We've got nothing in common and in the eight months we've known each other, I've found it hard to say your name without inwardly cringing.
For a start, I don't like the way you look; with your silly flat hat, and that pot belly. You're making me work twice as hard as 30 did to avoid your awful belly example (and I had babies in that decade!) You do realise I don't wake up in the morning thinking 'Gee I can't wait to get stuck into some burpees and planks, or run 10k', don't you?
And I hate the way you sound. 20 rhymed (rather aptly) with plenty, 30 had flirty, 40 was great with naughty, but you, 50 – the best you've got is thrifty. THRIFTY?? Where the hell is the fun in THAT?
The only thing you've got going for you is that you are better than the alternative. But don't go getting all cock-a-hoop and start bragging – that doesn't rate high on the achievement stakes because let's face it, every number, even 90, is better than the alternative.
So because of that one redeeming fact, 50, I will tolerate you, and all you relatives. But let's get one thing clear... we will NEVER be friends, ok? I will fight you (ungraciously and age-inappropriately) all the way to 60, by which time I hope to have come to terms with being past my prime.