Today is June 26, 2012. Forty years ago, at around 7:22 am, I came into this world.
You know, back when I turned thirty I hoped that I would be respected by others and treated like an intelligent adult. When I was thirty-five I expected the same thing. Now I’ve just realized that no matter how old you are – respect is still earned and someone out there is always going to call you “kid” or talk down to you as if you’re some fucked-up teenager who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. ::shrug::
Forty is no different. Only two months ago someone five years my junior told me, “Oh honey, when you reach my age you’ll understand.” I was like, “I was your age five years ago… I’m pretty sure I get it.”
Someone six years my senior, just last week, told me I was still a “youngster”.
Or maybe it’s only those of us who look young who have this problem. After all, I do look like I’m in my late 20’s or early 30’s. Two years ago a young college student wanted to hang out with me. She thought my friend (who’s about 6-7 years old than me) and my husband (who is also mid-forties) were my parents. ::sigh:: So there you go.
I don’t feel any different, just more run down, more jaded, fifty pounds heavier than the decade before, and more determined to finish my life’s work since when you hit your forties you know that you probably only have another 20-40 years left. 50-60 if you’re damn healthy and wrap yourself in bubble wrap to avoid accidents. My guess is I’ll likely manage another 40-50 years because I’m curmudgeonly and bitchy. That is unless I die in a fiery car or plane crash, have a heart attack on the elliptical, or end up choking to death on my Atkins breakfast bar.
In my case this also means that I probably will never have children. My window of opportunity is gone. Of course there could be a slim chance in hell that my husband and I could still end up miraculously spawning crotch fruit by some bizarre twist of fate from a desperate universe, but my guess is the universe would have to be pretty damn desperate. After all, this pervading primary unexplained infertility is the reason I’m such a prolific writer. I just figured the universe wanted my books more than my dna. I’m happy to oblige.
So how’s that for thoughts about turning forty? Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I’m having a bad week or anything, or that I’m bitter about getting older. On the contrary my week has been wonderful so far and my life gets better with each passing year. I’m just a pragmatic realist who doesn’t see the world through rose colored glasses.
Alas, to celebrate my four decades on this planet, my husband and I (and a friend or two) are going out to dinner. We’ll eat some delicious meats and come October I’ll be getting my birthday present — a new tablet. The MS Surface. That is unless something cooler comes out by then. Happy birthday to me! 🙂