So this is 50

My in-laws sent me a card with all the great things about being 50.

It’s basically a poem that starts with 50 being “fierce” and “strong” and “awesome as ever.” It rhymes its way through 50 being “wise and bravehearted” and “50’s discovery” and “50’s on top.”

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On my own

Right from the start, I want to make it clear that I do know how to make hamburgers and French fries.

On a scale where “even I can do it” is considered the definition of a simple job, burgers and fries are at the easy end of that scale. Just put the burgers on the grill and toss the fries in hot oil (well, not literally, unless you like grease burns).

When everything is done, put the burger on a bun, load up everything with ketchup and enjoy.

Nothing to it.

I have documents, therefore I am: May 22

I renewed my driver’s license, ensuring that I can drive legally for the next five years and avoiding a potential awkward travel moment.

It was easy enough. I have no idea where the nearest Registry of Motor Vehicles office is, but the AAA in town also handles license renewals and is open on the weekend, so I made the first appointment and was in and out in less than 15 minutes.

Uh oh … problem

A light came on in my car. That always makes me nervous.

Actually, I get nervous whenever something isn’t working properly, but when it’s the car, I immediately start thinking about contingency commuting plans if something is seriously wrong, plus I worry that any solutions will be expensive.

Plus, I’d have no idea how to fix it.

That was how long ago?

“You know it’s snowing here, right?”

That was my brother, calling me on a not-delightful-at-all May morning (yes, May, the 18th to be exact), wondering if he should still meet Suzi, me and her parents for our planned trip to Yankee Stadium.

I was aware that it was snowing where he lived, but that near our hometown, up on the hill. Outside of Albany where we lived, it was cold — especially since, as I mentioned before, it was May 18 — but it was just raining.

A random funny story about volleyball

I’ve never read “Slaughterhouse-Five,” but I recently saw a reference, so for the completely out-of-context purpose of this story (since it’s about the furthest thing possible from war), let’s just say “All this happened, more or less.”

Volleyball at Chuck’s house — the usual time, the usual place, the usual players.

For some reason that even my unreliable narrator won’t try to guess, someone made a reference to “The Bridges of Madison County.”

No more bundling up, for now

“Don’t look there. Look over there.”

Opening my closet to pick out what I was wearing to work, my eyes first focused on the same placed they had for most of the past six months — the long-sleeve, button-down shirts.

That’s what happens when winter and its various vestiges last until the middle of May.

When the clock strikes 10

The chime comes at 10 every night.

Originally, it was to remind me to take my medication before bed, but I haven’t needed it for years. I just take it whenever I’m ready to head upstairs.

Even though the message with the chime is still about the medication, it has become a cue of a different sort — to feed my cat Sasha.

Going out to eat out: May 15

The TVs above the bar were all showing the Bruins game.

What looked to be a family of six included two boys in baseball uniforms, so it’s pretty obvious where they were coming from.

Between people eating outside to enjoy the warm weather — even if the view was of the Market Basket grocery store parking lot — and the fact it was 5:30 (we had a basketball game we wanted to watch at 7), there weren’t all that many people inside.

We get to go

Suzi sent me the National Theatre Live schedule the other day.

Some of it looks pretty promising, especially Jodie Comer’s one-woman show, “Prima Facie.” I didn’t watch the last season of “Killing Eve” because I felt like it had gone completely off the rails, but even when the show was sliding fast, she was always great.

I’m also intrigued by “Straight Line Crazy” with Ralph Fiennes, because I’m not sure what a play about Robert Moses would look like. (Robert Caro’s “The Power Broker” has been on my “maybe I should read that” list for years, but I never have, probably for about 1,344 different reasons.)