Forty.

I remember when my mom turned forty.  We celebrated her summer birthday at the lake, as usual, and I wrote on her card “lordy flordy look who’s forty”.  I remember reading it in a magazine one time and finding it funny, but not truly understanding what it meant or what the world believes (or tries to make you believe) about a fortieth birthday.  I was nine years old. I do remember thinking forty seemed ancient, as anything over twelve seems to feel to a nine-year-old.

Well, here I am.

I think I’m supposed to feel terrible, or depressed, or old. This is the line where single women become spinsters or old maids; this is where I’m supposed to question all my life choices and regrets and have a mid-life crisis.

But the thing is I don’t feel any of those things.  Well, I do feel a little bit sad, but that’s because COVID crazy has limited my ability to throw a smashing party for myself. The reality is I’ve never been one to do what society expects, and I’ve set up a life that looks different and feels awesome.  The older I get the more fun it is – because the older I get the less I feel constrained by what others think of me or what I ‘should’ do or look like or feel, and the more I embrace me for me. 

So bring it on, forty.

And get it together, 2021, so I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming!