I've been looking forward to turning 40 since my twenties. I hated my twenties, because I hated myself. And my thirties felt like a nonstop carousel of making babies, changing diapers, keeping my kids from being traumatized before age five, and learning how to adult. Or at least learning how to fake it. Kind of like the lady who just sold me a chicken Ceasar salad to go, hold the crootins. That's how she pronounced it. "Crootins."
Anyhoo, I still hate myself (obviously), but I just don't care as much. It reminds me of being in labor with Paige and getting IV pain killers before the epidural. You still feel pain, but you just don't give a fuck anymore. It's like, I obv don't love that I'm still neurotic, insecure, feel like an incompetent fraud, and have ankle stubble peeking out of the legs of my black dress pants. But I'm not actively trying to resolve any of those things either. Know'm sayin'?
40 is a legit birthday for a mother of two school-aged children and a lawyer with more than a decade of practice under her belt. It's like, you have wrinkles and people don't look at you like you're 15 anymore. The law students and young professionals or others who (foolishly) turn to you for advice and guidance graduated high school after several of the lawsuits on your desk were filed. Other adults think you're one of them. Suddenly your opinion counts. I mean, not as much as a 26 year-old mediocre white man's opinion of course. NEVER as much as THAT. But almost.
39 is like a purgatory for your forties. My dad told me that a woman's forties are the prime of her life. I've always respected him for that, and looked forward to turning 40 because of it. I assume it's because my mother was at the height of her professional bad-assery at that age. Looking back, that has to be it. I was 8-18 in my mom's forties; pretty much my whole conscious childhood. She was always coming home in a rage about various professional injustices and she was totally up my ass about piano practice and homework. Maybe my dad admired that. Who knows.
All I know is that I am over my thirties and want to just leapfrog 39 right to 40. Time flies and all that, I'm certainly not trying to speed up the circle of life and bring myself one year closer to dead before I have to. It's just that 39 feels like a pointless weigh station en route to a potentially more promising decade of life.
This blog on the other hand just turned two. It's not walking or talking yet, but it is throwing tantrums, so yeah. O.H.M. is meeting its key developmental milestones.