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.