I turned forty this year. 40. The big 4-0.
I don’t think I’m taking it well.
I don’t feel 40. I don’t think I look 40. But there are certain things that creep up to let me know that I’m officially “Old” according to some chart some where.
Like the fact that I’m no longer allowed to wear a short skirt according to some fashion law somewhere (not that I wear short skirts, but I’d like to have the option.) Or that Claire’s in the mall had fluffy neon skirts a la 1986. The 13 year old girl in me still turns her nose up at neon colors. And I’ve already done the shorts with tights look in college (and really, if I had the figure, I’d so do that again, Doc Marten boots and all.)
I’ve realized I’ve wasted my 30’s being chubby. I want to wear cool clothes again before I’m doomed to elasticated waistbands and sensible shoes. (I’ve lost 17 lbs since August, 7 of those since last month, so I’m on my way.)
I’ve come to realize that maybe, just maybe, my shot at being a rock star has passed me by.
I look at my sons and wonder “When did they get so TALL?” It’s hard to pass yourself off as a young mom when your boys are looming over you, all teenager-like.
I spend part of my day wishing I’d done more, and the other part going “Wow, I’ve done a lot!”
Suddenly, a tattoo doesn’t seem like a stupid idea and I have three new red lipsticks.
I think I’m having a mid-life crisis.
Quick, someone get me a cool car and some skin firming cream.