Column: A big, scary milestone — hitting 50 in a pandemic

Last summer I hit a big, scary milestone in the middle of a pandemic. Life was like, "You know what? With the entire world shut down and the fear of sickness and death stalking us all, let's really lighten the mood and make Rini turn 50, too." I didn't mind as much at the time since I'm pretty much all for anything that celebrates me. But I suspect the entire world now sees me differently. And by "the world," I definitely mean the social media algorithms that watch everything I do online and tailor ads to my taste. Once those magic wizards get a hold of you, it's like that old saying "You can run but you can't hide" — you can think you're still young and powerful all you want, but the entire internet knows better and then commits the sin of reminding you. Daily. My birthday is in June. By July, I was noticing a dramatic increase in "10 Places to Visit Before You Die" ads. I dismissed them for a while but then noticed the marketers were getting craftier, trying to lure me into clicking by hyper-focusing even more, offering "10 Things To Do in Ohio Before You Die" and then even to cities I frequented. Note: There are not 10 things to do in Ohio before you die that you haven't already done. Unless they count picking out your cemetery plot. By fall, the ads for cosmetic procedures started. At first it was subtle — a little injection here or there, fill out that brow line so you don't look permanently angry — but when it didn't hook me the marketers stepped up their game. They started hawking reconstructive surgery, which apparently is now done on everything that might come with your basic body starter kit but is needing rejuvenated, sculpted and "streamlined." That sounds suspiciously like Chad from accounting is planning to lay off whole departments. I am not letting Chad come to me with his sour face that needs maybe just a wee injection between the brows so he stops looking face-mad. We've made it this far, this body and I, and we're not planning on leaving anybody behind. Note: Unless it falls off. Any part that just spontaneously falls off of said body can and probably will forfeit their role on the team. Now I get daily ads alerting me to new "senior housing" being built around my town. The thing is, it's not. As much as my friends and I say that living in a "55-and-up" community with a pool and an on-site handyman that is not us and limits on teenagers sounds delightful, I know this is not possible. Unlike Facebook's all-knowing algorithm, I know I am not quite old enough to make the age limits and I'd have to sell off these children to satisfy the homeowner's agreements. Not that I'm opposed to meeting those goals. Note: The shore of Lake Erie, where I live, is not known for its flourishing cactuses and red mountains in the distance. Those pictures are not fooling anybody. Apparently being 50 is the age when the entire internet decides you need, above all, two things: bladder-protection clothing and a new boyfriend. I've been married nearly two decades and suddenly I am peppered with friend requests from a range of men, all of whom have the following things in common: They've all joined social media just this week, take lots of selfies with dogs, castles and sports cars in the background, are doctors or "wealth businessmen," and are all widowed tragically young. Also French. They all seem to be French. Even I, a woman who bought my own crown to prepare to be 50, doubt that I've suddenly become this popular. I asked around, and it turns out — get this — every woman in my age group has been getting the same requests. Sometimes their would-be suitors are posing in front of military vehicles and maybe aren't French, but the rest? Same. "I think my age has tripped an algorithm that makes them think I have money now," my fellow longtime friend theorized. "Joke's on them!" It's a remarkable thing, going from maternity ads to anti-aging lipsticks, from being offered carefree girl trips in convertibles to arthritis medications and sensible shoes. It's especially alarming when you find out you have shoes older than your kids' teachers but you've been telling yourself that you are keeping it under wraps, that nobody in this room suspects you "might" be a bit mature, until you inadvertently get excited when you hear "your jam" playing and it turns out to be in an incontinence ad. Oscar Wilde sagely pointed out that with age comes wisdom — but sometimes age comes alone. He clearly did not have my algorithm. Contact Rini Jeffers@rinijeffersauthorworks, Facebook.com/RiniJeffers, @RiniJeffers on Twitter and rinijeffers@gmail.com.