My new blogger pal, Cheek, and I have been discussing rites of passage. We're both 39 and have bandied about with spectacular ways to declare to the world that we're vibrant and strong and 40!
Or . . .
We're trying to stave off the inevitable stomach-in-the-throat sensation when the roller coaster crests that precipitous arc by diving headlong into Bacchanalian adventures and pretending not to care . . .
Thing is, I kinda do care. Didn't used to. But then, I didn't used to be close enough to see the whites of the the big ole 4-0's eyes.
And then I read this post. That exact thing happened to me! Except I turned 37 a few years ago. Because I'm older than Susie Sunshine. Biotch.
Anyhoo--that was a cool year. The year I thought I was 38 but I was really only 37. And then things got. even. better!
When I really was 38, Beautiful had her first boyfriend. I liked First Boyfriend. First Boyfriend was stunned (truly--I could see it in his face--trust me on this) to learn that I was 38. He was quite certain I was only 34. 34! (No--he wasn't sucking up just because he was a little nervous about being the first boyfriend of a beautiful virgin girl with overly protective parents. He thought I looked 34. Shut up.)
Beautiful and I enjoyed his complete lack of computation skills so much (my eldest at that time was 20--chances of me being 34 were pretty slim) that we both began to actually think I really was 34. *Sigh* Good times. Good times, that is, until my 35th birthday came along and it turned out to be my 39th birthday. Crap. Lost 4 whole years. They tell you having teens will age you. They don't even know.
Getting back to me . . .
I do care about getting older after all. There was a time, not too long ago (oh, sweet naivety of youth . . . ) when I didn't care at all. Not even a little bit. Everyone gets older. Period. The only alternative to getting older is, *ahem* not getting older at all. I was happy to accept every day that I woke up on God's glorious Earth as a precious gift of time.
I still feel that way. Except now, I notice that the gift comes less meticulously wrapped. It now comes with wrapping that's maybe kinda lumpy. And a little teensy bit wrinkled around the edges. And looks like it was used and ironed out and used again. And, from all the evidence around me, it ain't gettin' any better.
Unless . . .
Unless I move to SoCal. Specifically the Hollywood region. Seems the women down there, no matter how old they get, don't lose the satiny luster off the wrapping. Must be something in the water. But there are some nasty side effects to imbibing that water. Like certain portions of the face don't seem to have any mobility. And the slow but steady creep of the eyebrows towards the hairline. And as long as you continue to look young, seems, in their culture, you have to continue to marry young. I'm not sure I'm up for that.
I'm pretty content with my sweet Mister. I don't have to pretend with Mister that I'm 25. Or 30. Or 35. I can be 40. I can have crow's feet. And a few stray grays. And southerly migrating boobs. Mister is okay with that. Mister joins me in those infirmities.
I'm going to print this out and save it in my Stuff-To-Read-When-I'm-90 file. When I'm 90 and I re-read this--well, okay, when I'm 90 and my great grandchildren read this to me because I'll be blind by then--I'm going to laugh and laugh at the misconception of my youth and at how 'old' I once perceived 40 to be. I'll also be laughing at the naked monkeys doing the laundry and the waffles I'm wearing on my feet because I'll be entirely senile and delusional . . . But at least I'll be laughing.