First things first. Happy b'day in Heaven to my nana...and Elvis. Now, my post.
Forty.
I'm rolling that around in my mouth and it tastes like putrid yuckiness. Like beets or radishes, the only foods I loathe. Forty just sounds blech.
Last year when Better Half was all sour-pussed about turning 40, I was all, "Hey, c'mon, it's gonna be great!" The cup that was half-full has since been drained and all traces of that sunshine has evaporated. Why? Because it's my turn. Dammit.
I celebrated 30 like a rock star. No, really. It was a combo birthday/divorce party and I had a hot new guy there. He's still hot, but not so new since we're soon celebrating another anniversary. That decade, minus the whole paralyzing anxiety/panic attacks/therapy part, was pretty amazing. I got married, had a kid, got my dream job, and bought a house. My thirties were good...no, I mean good. How the hell is 40 gonna battle that? I think of forty like B-Rabbit at the beginning of 8 Mile when he can't hold his mud at battle time. He could be good, but he's gonna need a lot of help.
When I think of 40, I think of people who are settled...content...together. Settled I can do. Content is even a maybe. Ain't no way in hell am I together, though. I wake up at least 3 times a week thinking about what I want to be when I grow up. What? I'm grown? Oh, shit.
I keep thinking there are things I want to do in life. Granted, I'm not sure exactly what those things are, but I feel like I'm marching time, waiting for something. Before you go all, "Well, go make it happen!" I don't what it is. Hence the problem. Okay, that's not really the problem. The problem is I'm halfway to checking out (optimistically speaking if I make it to 80ish, which I might based on family history), so that means half my friggin' time is up. Halfway is good if you're running a marathon or waiting on homemade chocolate cake or pregnant. In relation to living versus being dead? Not so much.
I keep thinking about what I want to be by the time I hit that, ahem, great day. Time is limited. Truthfully, so is my dedication to anything that requires a lot of change on my part. I'm sort of a stubborn ass. I keep reading that being 40 allows you to be an asshole just because you're 40 now and you're so, you know, wise. I think I locked in on that at about 17.
Here are the two great things I've honed in on thus far.
I used to have really, really short pixie hair. Of course, like most women, I always wanted to total opposite of what I had, so my life has been a revolving door of grow-it-out, cut-that-off! I loved my short hair, but then I envied those easy ponytails and bouncing curls of my friends and let it grow. After a bit, it become a shield and safety blanket. Short hair has expectations, ya know. I couldn't live up to the sassiness required, so I sorta hid behind my long hair. I think I'm ready to give my pixie another go. Maybe. The jury is deliberating, but is leaning toward it. We'll see.
I've never worn a bikini. Ever. I remember being at the beach in high school with friends and one girl needing to borrow a suit. I offered her an extra of mine, but she politely (sincerely because she was/is an angel of a gal) said she only wore two-piece suits. I completely understood because I would, too, if I had her body. I'd probably just strut around n-a-k-e-d all damn day. I've never been a bikini girl. I had baby fat that just hung around until I had three babies of my own. *Sigh*
Maybe 40 will be the year I finally get into a bikini. Oh, not the shape I'm in now. There's no way in hell that's happening. I started working out a bit and watching my food. Let's be honest, it's not for my health since I'm halfway dead. It's for the somewhat remote possibility I might buy a bikini this year. It's gonna have to have some, um, support, but maybe there's nice mommy bikinis out there? It's new territory to me, so we'll see.
I have six months and a few days to get used to 40 or to at least be able to see sunlight between my thighs. Wish me luck.
Forty.
I'm rolling that around in my mouth and it tastes like putrid yuckiness. Like beets or radishes, the only foods I loathe. Forty just sounds blech.
Last year when Better Half was all sour-pussed about turning 40, I was all, "Hey, c'mon, it's gonna be great!" The cup that was half-full has since been drained and all traces of that sunshine has evaporated. Why? Because it's my turn. Dammit.
I celebrated 30 like a rock star. No, really. It was a combo birthday/divorce party and I had a hot new guy there. He's still hot, but not so new since we're soon celebrating another anniversary. That decade, minus the whole paralyzing anxiety/panic attacks/therapy part, was pretty amazing. I got married, had a kid, got my dream job, and bought a house. My thirties were good...no, I mean good. How the hell is 40 gonna battle that? I think of forty like B-Rabbit at the beginning of 8 Mile when he can't hold his mud at battle time. He could be good, but he's gonna need a lot of help.
When I think of 40, I think of people who are settled...content...together. Settled I can do. Content is even a maybe. Ain't no way in hell am I together, though. I wake up at least 3 times a week thinking about what I want to be when I grow up. What? I'm grown? Oh, shit.
I keep thinking there are things I want to do in life. Granted, I'm not sure exactly what those things are, but I feel like I'm marching time, waiting for something. Before you go all, "Well, go make it happen!" I don't what it is. Hence the problem. Okay, that's not really the problem. The problem is I'm halfway to checking out (optimistically speaking if I make it to 80ish, which I might based on family history), so that means half my friggin' time is up. Halfway is good if you're running a marathon or waiting on homemade chocolate cake or pregnant. In relation to living versus being dead? Not so much.
I keep thinking about what I want to be by the time I hit that, ahem, great day. Time is limited. Truthfully, so is my dedication to anything that requires a lot of change on my part. I'm sort of a stubborn ass. I keep reading that being 40 allows you to be an asshole just because you're 40 now and you're so, you know, wise. I think I locked in on that at about 17.
Here are the two great things I've honed in on thus far.
I used to have really, really short pixie hair. Of course, like most women, I always wanted to total opposite of what I had, so my life has been a revolving door of grow-it-out, cut-that-off! I loved my short hair, but then I envied those easy ponytails and bouncing curls of my friends and let it grow. After a bit, it become a shield and safety blanket. Short hair has expectations, ya know. I couldn't live up to the sassiness required, so I sorta hid behind my long hair. I think I'm ready to give my pixie another go. Maybe. The jury is deliberating, but is leaning toward it. We'll see.
I've never worn a bikini. Ever. I remember being at the beach in high school with friends and one girl needing to borrow a suit. I offered her an extra of mine, but she politely (sincerely because she was/is an angel of a gal) said she only wore two-piece suits. I completely understood because I would, too, if I had her body. I'd probably just strut around n-a-k-e-d all damn day. I've never been a bikini girl. I had baby fat that just hung around until I had three babies of my own. *Sigh*
Maybe 40 will be the year I finally get into a bikini. Oh, not the shape I'm in now. There's no way in hell that's happening. I started working out a bit and watching my food. Let's be honest, it's not for my health since I'm halfway dead. It's for the somewhat remote possibility I might buy a bikini this year. It's gonna have to have some, um, support, but maybe there's nice mommy bikinis out there? It's new territory to me, so we'll see.
I have six months and a few days to get used to 40 or to at least be able to see sunlight between my thighs. Wish me luck.
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| photo: misadventureswithandi.com |
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