You know, when I was young(er) I used to think 40 was one-step into the grave. Now that I am just about there, I’d love to slap myself in the face for thinking that for even a moment.
When my Mom turned 40, I was 19 and my brother was 16. My Dad had the great idea to throw my Mom a surprise party with a bunch of guests, and my brother and I thought, COOL! a party!
My Mom was surprised alright. She cried. Not tears of joy, but anger and sorrow. She was pissed to be 40. She wanted nothing of it.
As you might imagine, that party didn’t turn out so well.
Often, I feel like a 21 year old, and yeah, there are those days when I feel much more than my age, but to be honest I have more good than bad days.
My teen years do seem long ago, and the memories do start to fade (a little) when the clock starts winding up. College seems like long ago (but not THAT long ago), and my twenties seem very not so long ago at all.
And my 30’s? Well, they were a blur. I think I must have slept though most of them, because damn if they didn’t go fast.
I guess that is how it goes, as we age. I am hoping that someday this blog serves as a record to remind me what I might forget when I reach 60? 70? 80?
The truth is, 40 is just fine with me.
If I weren’t still desperately seeking fertility, I wouldn’t be the least bit sad about it. 40 is only a number that bothers me when I think about my aging eggs.
And, hubby is newly 40 too… so we kind of are in this together.
I don’t really have any plans this weekend (my birthday is Saturday). My Mom and Dad are taking me, hubby, David, and my brother, his wife, and kids to dinner. No shebang. No balloons or streamers. No large honking signs that say 4-0
My Mom promises to keep it on the down low. I guess she half expects the same reaction she gave us 21 years ago.
Truth is Mom,
I’m just groovy.