I turned forty last week. That used to seem so old to me. Forty. I don’t feel old though. At least not in the head I don’t. It’s not like I woke up on my fortieth birthday and instantly started referring to The Salon as The Beauty Shop; I didn’t grab a Redbook, throw on a housecoat and cover my couch with protective plastic. It wasn’t like that at all. I, in fact, haven’t changed much from when I was in my thirties, or even my twenties. Each one of my toes currently boasts a different color nail polish and if you say the word “trim” I will start cracking up because I think it is the funniest thing ever.
My body feels kind of old though. Maybe that is what forty is all about. Body/old. Head/young. But as soon as I mention anything like that in front of a legitimately old person I get this: “What do you know from aches and pains? You think you know from aches and pains? What do you know? You’re young.” Oh yeah, old person? Tell that to my 4 year old daughter. She informed me earlier today that she can still jump out of bed in the morning because she is young and I can not because I am old.
So, what’s the real deal? Is forty old or is it young? It can get pretty confusing and the following three sayings are supposed to lend comfort to those of us making the jump, but I have found the opposite to be true.
Life begins at Forty. I hate to be the one to tell you this but if your life is beginning at forty, you missed out on A LOT. I can’t imagine discounting all the years before I turned forty. I loved them all. Those were the years when I could eat cake without a second thought while now I might as well bypass eating it and just tape it to my ass since that’s where it’s going anyway. The years before forty were the years when I woke up with a hangover because I actually HAD A HANGOVER. Now, if I’m up past midnight I wake up feeling like crap—and that’s without drinking.
Forty is the new Thirty. No it’s not. Thirty is Thirty. I don’t care how sweet your body is, there is nothing worse than checking someone out who looks great from behind, but when they turn around you’re like “Holy Moly, what the hell is that all about? Is that Judi Dench?”
Also, it’s probably time to ditch some of the items inhabiting your closet. I know it hurts, especially if they still fit, but just because you can wear something doesn’t necessarily mean you should. Bazaar magazine separates what they feel is appropriate by decade each month in case we need guidance. I think that is a little severe, but it might be a good time to reassess the closet and perhaps bid a fond farewell to the leopard print super-tight mini dress.
Forty and Fabulous. Fabulous? Come on. I can name several things I find to be NOT so fabulous:
-While assessing my closet (as instructed above), I tried on several pairs of pants and many of them were short. How in the hell did that happen?!? I haven’t gotten any taller!
-The gyno doesn’t only go in through the Front, he hits the Back as well. (Some sort of prostate check). That was something I wasn’t quite prepared for.
-When someone says “You look good,” it really means “You look good, for forty.”
-Young people who say that 80’s music is old and it sucks. You know what? YOU SUCK.
-Grey hairs, forehead lines and spider veins. Oh yeah, there’s a whole lot of “fabulous” in that trio of terror.
-Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I need an iron to get the pillow lines out of my face.
-Years of tennis and kick boxing are catching up me and everything is starting to hurt and break down. It’s all about stretching and steroid injections now. I’m thinking about mugging the Tin Man for his can of oil.
Of course, there are some great things about being forty. Lots of great things, but you’ll have to find that list on someone else’s blog. It’s past my bedtime and I can’t remember where I put my bite guard.
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