I’m turning 40

“Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age.”
–Victor Hugo

“Traci, you’re turning 40-years-old. What are you going to do?”

Yep. It’s not a bad commercial—it’s true. I’m turning 40. Next week, in fact.

And I know this birthday is supposed to be some kind of a landmark, but I’m not entirely sure why. All my life I’ve been hearing – first from friends’ parents and relatives, then my own friends, and now my family—that this age is a big, fat, hairy deal.

Apparently, people don’t like turning 40.

I remember when I was growing up, my best friend’s mom was 39 for two, full decades in a row. Every year, every birthday, Happy Big 39.

I didn’t quite understand that joke back then. I couldn’t understand why a person would fear a particular age. In fact, I wanted to get older; I was raring and ready to hit 16, and then 21. And then… well, there is no then—that’s it.

Of course, now that I’m older, and wiser, and more awesome, I think I understand where this anti-40 thing comes from. If one watches television at all, or reads, or I don’t know, uses one’s eyes much, one will see that our culture is age-obsessed. We are completely consumed with women trying to look like they’re in their 20s. Older women, younger women, teenagers—everybody wants lithe thighs, taut abs and highlighted hair. And to turn 21. And to never, ever be anything different.

To this, from my almost-40-year-old vantage point, I say: Eeuuwww.

Look, I have no problem with any woman looking the way she wants. You want to look like a Barbie doll in your 70s even, that’s your choice. But don’t try to ply me with the idea that I’m supposed to WANT to stay in my 20s.

FACT:  I hated my 20s. For those unaware, “hate” means “wants dead.” I wanted my 20s to die. I hated my naiveté and inexperience and my constant desire to have already made something of myself, to have achieved something so I could keep up with the proverbial Joneses. Worse, I hated that I cared so much about what other people—women mostly—thought of the way I looked or how I acted or what I did for a living. I hated bars; I hated the singles scene; and later, I hated my first marriage. (Are you seeing a theme here??)

I remember the last day of my 29th year; I was exuberant that by midnight, my life would start afresh. While all my girlfriends were freaking out over the possibility of 30, conversely, I leapt into the decade with the verve of pressing a reset button, and nary a backward glance.

Alas, ten more years have zoomed on by and the “Ohmygawd”s have started. “Ohmygawd you’re going to be 40. How do you feel about that?” “Ohmygawd do you feel old?” “Ohmygawd this is such a huge age for women.”

Really? Huh.

I feel good about 40. And I don’t feel old age coming on, at least no more than I’ve already felt over the past few years, when my vision started to blur and my metabolism slowed to a glacial pace.  But I love my life, and my family, and my job. In fact, I would say 40 is the age I’ve been waiting for my whole life.

So this whole thinking-40-is-old business? I agree with my mommy-blogger friend, Gail: Age is a state of mind.

Thus the question,“Traci, you’re turning 40-years-old. What are you going to do?”

Duh: I’m going to Disneyland.