Wednesday, Apr 19
I think it’s time to put it in writing: In a matter of days, I will be forty years old.
Look, I am aware that I was born in the late ’70s. I know that there are puffy stickers of Michael Jackson’s head (when he still had an afro) in a sticker book in my keepsake box. Jessica McClintock dresses were everything to me when I was in eighth grade. I know that I have attended and graduated from college. I met a guy, dated him, married him, and have been married to him for almost 14 years. And I am well aware that the two of us have seven children: five here under our roof and two in Paradise. I drive a twelve passenger van. I get excited by things like new appliances and clean toilets. I am not denying any of the above.
However! There is no possible way that I am about to be FORTY.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, in my mind, I’m perpetually in my twenties. Weren’t my twenties the ultimate? I was young and fun and full of vim and vigor. The thing is, I’m wiser and funnier than I was then. I’m also in better shape. I have a much better fashion sense than when I was in my twenties. I have more friends, and am surrounded by more love than I ever was in my twenties. I know more about myself, my passions, what makes me sad, what makes me happy. I know how to take care of myself far better now than when I was in my twenties.
So what’s the big deal about this “forty” situation anyway? I’m a better version of myself in my twenties now that I’m almost forty. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t want to go back to being that young girl if I could! Is it the “over the hill,” black balloon, “Lordy, Lordy, look who’s forty!” decorations and cards that I’ve seen for years that scare me and conjure up such negative thoughts about this milestone? The “halfway to 80,” “Oh no! The big 4-0” attitude needs to change.
I refuse to get wrapped up in how old I am. I will not allow the number of years since I was born change how I see myself. I’m forty. Big woop.
Hey forties! Bring it!