By the time it finally came, I just wanted my 40th birthday to be over with. I wasn't so much dreading it as I was tired of talking about its coming, and just ready for it to be here. We all like to mark milestones, don't we? It's not such a big deal to turn 41. Or 39. But 40- that round number makes us stop and pay attention.
I relaxed in a bubble bath this weekend and thought about my other decade-turning birthdays. I can actually remember turning 10. And being aware that I was no longer in single digits, but doubles. (Being so sentimental at that young age- I had a long road ahead.) I turned 20 in college, and don't remember much specific about that birthday, because of course the next year would be a bigger deal. And when I turned 30 I was a new mother- my 6-week-old baby had turned my life all inside-out. It was like I didn't even know myself.
Bill surprised me with a spa day for my 30th. I remember the masseuse asking me if I had any medical conditions, and I responded that I had given birth 6 weeks ago. Like I was the first person to ever achieve such a feat. And my body might be completely different from all the non-mother clients she had ever massaged.
So in an effort to summarize, take stock, analyze, I feel good about 40. I'm feeling like a real grownup for the first time- in a good way. I have worries now, sure. But at least they are real worries, not the stupid shit I worried about in my teens. My 20s were about surviving independently, kind of playing at being a grownup. My 30s were about learning to be a mother. And my 40s seem like they might be just about living in this life that I've made. Enjoying it.
