Well, here I am. Tomorrow, I will be 40.
My butt has widened, my bras have gone from sexy to sensible, and I'm pretty sure I need bifocals. I buy shoes based on arch support instead of potential cuteness factor. When did I get so old?
I asked my sister (who, incidentally, is three years older than I. I was a mess when she turned 40, because I knew my turn was coming up fast.) She reminded me of what my brother-in-law told her when she turned 40: that, since we don't turn 1 until we've lived 1 year, turning 40 means you've actually lived 40 years and are starting your 41st. That cheered me right up, as you can imagine. I'd like to point out that my brother-in-law is turning 45 this year, which means he's actually starting his 46th year, which makes him practically 50.
But I digress. Looking for comfort and validation online, I put it out to my Facebook friends: when did I get so old? Here's a sampling of their sympathetic replies:
"I've been 40 since October. Suck it up, buttercup." (Allison T., my 7th grade gym class buddy.)
"Thanks for going through it first! I appreciate that!" (Diane B., my high school french class buddy, who won't be 40 for nine more months.)
"Have a glass of whine!" (Sarah C., who won't turn 40 for another year at least, so she has no idea what I'm going through.)
"Take pleasure in the fact that you will look better than Jason at 40 and beyond." (Joy M., my wonderfully awesome sister-in-law.)
Of course! My family! Sure, my brother-in-law's words were no help, but maybe someone else in my family would make me feel better! I called my Aunt Joanne.
Me: "I'm going to be 40. I'm pretty depressed about it."
Auntie Joanne: "Well, that's stupid. Snap out of it!"
Me: "You're right. I'm all better now!"
Because really, let's look at 40: I own my own business. I get to kill off people I don't like in the stories I write. And, thanks to my Dad's genes, I hardly have any gray hair. (And thanks to my Mom's genes, I still have great teeth.)
So there you have it. Good teeth, no gray, sensible bras and shoes, and a pretty great support group of family and friends. I guess 40 isn't so bad after all.
My butt has widened, my bras have gone from sexy to sensible, and I'm pretty sure I need bifocals. I buy shoes based on arch support instead of potential cuteness factor. When did I get so old?
I asked my sister (who, incidentally, is three years older than I. I was a mess when she turned 40, because I knew my turn was coming up fast.) She reminded me of what my brother-in-law told her when she turned 40: that, since we don't turn 1 until we've lived 1 year, turning 40 means you've actually lived 40 years and are starting your 41st. That cheered me right up, as you can imagine. I'd like to point out that my brother-in-law is turning 45 this year, which means he's actually starting his 46th year, which makes him practically 50.
But I digress. Looking for comfort and validation online, I put it out to my Facebook friends: when did I get so old? Here's a sampling of their sympathetic replies:
"I've been 40 since October. Suck it up, buttercup." (Allison T., my 7th grade gym class buddy.)
"Thanks for going through it first! I appreciate that!" (Diane B., my high school french class buddy, who won't be 40 for nine more months.)
"Have a glass of whine!" (Sarah C., who won't turn 40 for another year at least, so she has no idea what I'm going through.)
"Take pleasure in the fact that you will look better than Jason at 40 and beyond." (Joy M., my wonderfully awesome sister-in-law.)
Of course! My family! Sure, my brother-in-law's words were no help, but maybe someone else in my family would make me feel better! I called my Aunt Joanne.
Me: "I'm going to be 40. I'm pretty depressed about it."
Auntie Joanne: "Well, that's stupid. Snap out of it!"
Me: "You're right. I'm all better now!"
Because really, let's look at 40: I own my own business. I get to kill off people I don't like in the stories I write. And, thanks to my Dad's genes, I hardly have any gray hair. (And thanks to my Mom's genes, I still have great teeth.)
So there you have it. Good teeth, no gray, sensible bras and shoes, and a pretty great support group of family and friends. I guess 40 isn't so bad after all.
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