forty
Among the craziness that was the week the blog went down, I turned 40 on Saturday.
It wasn’t quite the big birthday weekend I imagined.
Aside from a dinner out that evening (of which I will save for a separate post) and a lovely dinner with the ladies the night before, the weekend was stressful. I’m not really sure how I envisioned spending my 40th – maybe lounging on a tropical beach, maybe taking a stroll in Paris or at the very least having a relaxing picnic in the park – but certainly not like the tightly wound, overworked, sleep deprived stressball that I was.
But that’s ok.
I am not really one for large celebrations or the focus of attention. Mark and the girls were sweet. That’s all that matters.
So now that I’m 40, now that it’s finally here, 40…
doesn’t mean I’m going to suddenly cut my hair and wear pleated trouser pants.
doesn’t mean that I can’t wear the same item of clothing as a 25 year old, as long as it’s not grossly inappropriate, blatantly ridiculous or fair game for mockery.
doesn’t mean I’m going to stay up all night at a club to see if I still have it in me (or go to a club, for that matter).
doesn’t mean that I’ll start obsessively checking in on my retirement funds every week (we’ll leave that for 50).
doesn’t mean that I have everything figured out (quite the contrary).
But 40…
does mean that I don’t have to impress anyone anymore.
does mean that I’ve earned the right to not have to deal with a certain level of bullshit in my life.
does mean that I’ve accepted who I am and am comfortable with all my neurosis, idiosyncrasies, quirks and annoying habits.
does mean that if some people can’t accept that, they can suck it.
40…
feels the same as it did yesterday.
This is what 40 looks like.
