Of my garden and getting older

One of the late bloomers on my balcony. Here's hoping for no snow for the next few weeks.

There’s a little balcony outside my home office, where I stake assorted tomatoes and vegetables each summer in a raised-bed planter.

This time of year, I’m usually making batches of salsa and pesto to freeze and add to meals as the weather and our tastes change. I also typically have several green tomatoes and peppers propped up on the kitchen window sill hoping they will ripen rather than rot.

This year, however, I’m anxiously watching my tomato plants spring to life with flowers and fruit … In October.

I’m not sure why, but this year those tomato plants refused to bloom until the bitter end of the growing season. The same plants I started in a hydroponics grow kit that sprouted in April are now proving to be the proverbial late bloomers.

Frankly, it’s been a bit nerve-wracking to watch. I have pleaded with the weather gods to be super, extra late with the first frost. I have even considered making The Weed build some sort of green house around the raised bed to prolong this growing season for just a bit longer. Related: The Weed and I had an argument earlier this week about compost. Yes. Compost. So, I’ve decided allowing him near my beloved tomato plants is no longer a safe course of action. He says it wasn’t an argument. I maintain it was. About. Compost. Jesus. Grudges? Yes. I hold them.

I digress … Back to the tomatoes.

Most are still small and green. There are one or two that have started to change colors. There’s even one along the balcony railing that a blue jay stops by daily to check on and taste test. I’m allowing this because I’ve never argued with a blue jay about compost.

Now, I’m just wondering how long I will be able to let the tomatoes hang around on the vine until I must pull them all and put them on the window sill. To ripen not rot.

I’ve been watching the weather forecasts. It seems like we should have moderate temperatures in Colorado for at least another week. Which brings me to next week.

Next week, I turn 55. Ugh. I don’t know how to better phrase that so I don’t sound like an odometer. Just know I’ll be 55 years old next week.

Much like my tomatoes, I don’t feel that ripe or ready for the world. Fifty-five years old was how old my grandmothers were. Arveda and Helen. Always 55. Always in their smart sweater sets. Always with their hair perfectly set. Always there with comfort and love.

I don’t feel ready for sweater sets or the local bowling league. Hell, I don’t feel ready for the bone-strengthening medication I take but somehow that doesn’t seem age-related to me. My bones have been through a lot. Chemo. Radiation. They just need a little help after that hell.

So, I downplay the little reminders that come with 55 years on this Earth. The medications. The aches. The whiskers on my chin. The ridiculous, petty arguments with my husband that shouldn’t annoy me but do.

Perhaps, with 55 years, there will still be much to see and learn.

Perhaps, with 55 years, I’ll finally settle down and write a book.

Perhaps, with 55 years, I’ll become the physically fit specimen I’ve always dreamed about.

Perhaps, with 55 years, I’ll be comfortable as me.

Perhaps, with 55 years, I’ll reach my late-season bloom.