So I had another birthday this year...6 months ago to be exact. Let me preface this with the fact that I am so very grateful (truly, I am) to have been blessed with another year because this whole living thing is...well, kind of fun. It just so happens that I celebrated or recognized or to be quite honest, bemoaned hitting another milestone age. The big 4-0. You know, 40. "They" say it's the new 30. "They" lie. "They" say 40 is FABULOUS! "They" lie. "They" lie like a cheap toupee on a sweaty bald man's lumpy uneven head. Let me tell you what 40 is...it's the new F word, that's what 40 is.
Remember when the milestone ages were exciting? I mean wasn't it fun to turn 10 and kiss those single digits goodbye? And then 12, because like Stephen King told us, we would never have any friends quite like the ones we did when we were 12. Oh and 13 was huge! Being a teenager was the pinnacle of cool. 15 meant a learner's permit and for me, my first real kiss. Of course, everyone loves a sweet 16. And just like Stevie Nicks' white winged dove, I didn't think anything could be better than being 17 except maybe turning 18 in an election year even if my presidential candidate of choice lost. (That noise you hear is the conservative nerd alert). At 18, I met George and at 19, I fell in love with him. Then came 20 marking the end of my teenage years although I think part of me will always be 17...it must be a part on the inside...deep on the inside...because nothing on the outside still appears to be stuck at 17. Seriously.
It seems to be all downhill after 21. The next big one after that is The Dirty 30. The Dirty 30. I would say that I would love to be The Dirty 30 again except that when I turned 30, I had a 4-year old, a 3-year old, and a 4-month old so when I hear The Dirty Thirty, I automatically think about dirty diapers and spit-up on everything. Everything. Boy could not hold down his milk for anything. Don't get me wrong, when I was in the throes of caring for 3 little boys under the age of 5, I loved it. Absolutely loved it and that was after having been pregnant for nearly 5 years solid.
But now I am the new F word. I am 40 and I am tired. Seriously. I am a night owl willing to stay up until the wee hours of the morning because if my high school curfew taught me anything it's that apparently all the really cool stuff happens after midnight and since my high school curfew was midnight, I therefore missed out on all the cool stuff (whatever that may have been) and that, my dears, is why I was not cool in high school. But I digress...these days, I can stay up all night as long as I am not watching a movie. If George and I start watching a movie after 9:30, I will fall asleep and have to watch the blasted thing the next morning by myself before George takes it back the to the Redbox. 40 did that to me. 40 has betrayed me in lots ways. I won't tell you what body part I tripped over while getting out of the shower a few months back...suffice it to say, the old girls aren't what they used to be. The new horror hit me just last week...I thought I was suddenly going blind or possibly having a stroke. Thankfully that wasn't the case but I'm pretty sure my eye doctor will tell me at next week's appointment that it's time for readers. Readers. Mercy. 40...six months in and I shudder to think how much deeper those lines around my eyes are going to get and those laugh lines....who is laughing about those?
Seriously though, the Big 4-0. It's not all bad. I still have Jesus...and really He is everything. I have 4 beautiful children...the most beautiful children. I have been blessed with a great love that has lasted more than 20 years. And as it turns out, it's true what "they" say...I am comfortable in my own skin in a way that only comes with self-confidence and age and wisdom. I guess "they" don't always lie. Of course, "they" didn't tell me that I would be dealing with wrinkles and pimples on that skin all at the same time. At 40, I still know what's cool. Chuck Taylors are cool. I wear Chucks therefore I am cool even if I wasn't cool in high school. Knowing and being are two very different things after all. I started running last year (when I was still 39) and sometimes I imagine running backwards will turn back the miles as if I am an odometer in a John Hughes' film. It didn't work for Ferris but I have discovered that when I put on my running skirt and hot pink calf sleeves and pop in my ear buds and let my guilty pleasure songs get me pumped up for the run, and it's just me pounding the pavement, feeling like I'm flying even when my lungs are telling me to quit, you would be hard pressed to convince me that I am not on the edge of 17.
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