Today is my last day of 40. And I’m finding myself in that strange position I was exactly a decade ago, when 30 came to a screeching halt.
I remember having looked forward to 30 for so long, to the maturity and authority I thought it would confer, to the great milestone that is THREE-OH that I plum forgot that the birthdays didn’t stop there. When 31 somehow sneaked up on me in the cruelest, most unexpected way with hardly any warning at all (save for those 11,321 or so days that came before it) I was blindsided. Absolutely taken by surprise.
Uh…you mean it keeps going? There’s something after 30?
D’oh.
Evidently I don’t learn from my past mistakes, because here I am at the dawn of 41, surprised again.
And all I can think is shit, 41 sounds old. Infinitely older than 40. Because 41 is forty-something. And forty-something is more than forty-nothing.
Yet I don’t feel old. Yes, there are the knees that don’t work like they used to and the boobs that don’t say look at me! quite in the same way. I can’t eat candy bars for lunch and expect to live through it. I don’t get to giggle when a burly nightclub bouncer asks for my ID–nor do I ever actually get to go somewhere that might be in the employ of said burly bouncer. And yes, I tell Nate to turn down his music often enough that he thinks it’s cute to call me grandma.
But still? I wouldn’t trade it for 31 for even a minute.
Maybe just the boobs.
