I’m 40. Actually, I’ll be 41 soon, which is almost comforting, except for the way it’s not. But hey, I’m used to my forties now. I’m practically desensitized.
You know what the worst thing is? It’s the phrase “middle-aged”. I’ve made my peace with the fourth decade at this point, but I’m still very very much railing against any notion that I’m middle-aged. I think we need to ban those two words in that particular configuration. They have nothing but sad, dowdy, pathetic, or downright panic-ridden connotations.
My age is just a number, right? I don’t care that the number starts with a 4. Four is a nice digit, actually. Other numbers are much more important:
2 : The number of children I pushed out of my ladyparts (also the total number I have).
1 : The number of wine glasses right beside me as I write this, because I can refill it as many times as I like.
5 : The number of cupcakes whose continued existence I have carefully shielded from my two (2) children today.
0 : The number of fucks I give about what someone else thinks about how I look. (Most of the time).
10 : Almost the number of years I’ve been married to the man who is exactly the perfect man for me.
30 : The SPF I wear every day, because wrinkles are just laughter lines but skin cancer is no fun.
5 : How many cheesegraters I own. (Just throwing that in there.)
I’ll survive. As my dad always tells me, getting old is better than the alternative.
I don’t remember who said (approximately) “Getting old is the best way we found to die as late as possible.” Anyway, the forties are the best age. I said it.
Great post.40 is the new 30 anyway!
Ha Ha! I like your dad’s comment. I’ll remember that one. :o)
Ha — I’ve been slowly quaking about turning 40 this week. I have about 8 days left in my thirties. This post just made me feel better. For like a second. But that still counts for something.
Happy birthday!