On Turning 40
I had my last scheduled birthday lunch on Friday with my cousin and it seemed to make 40 finally final - although I did joke that I’m still celebrating as long as a balloon that I received on the 6th (my actual birthday) continues floating in our kitchen. As of today, it shows no signs of drooping. What does seem to be drooping a bit these days is my energy. I feel more tired than ever. Perhaps it’s the new puppy, perhaps it’s what I’m eating (or not), and drinking (or not). Perhaps it’s school, the lack of a consistent sleep schedule (story of my life), or just this season of life. But I refuse to say it’s because I’m old, because that’s simply not true. If I died tomorrow, everyone would say I was too young, and maybe that’s the best gauge of youth - thinking about what people would say about our age if we were suddenly gone.
Sometime last year, I realized if I only live as long as my dad did, I only have 18 years left. Now that I’m 40, it’s only a 17-year difference. Fifty-seven, the age my dad was when he died, suddenly seems rather close in the grand scheme of things. I thought about how I’m in a Ph.D. program right now that may take me 5-7 years to complete. If I only live as long as my dad, that doesn’t leave me a lot of time to work in some sort of sociology-related job. It also doesn’t seem long enough to spend with all the people I love. While a lot of fun can be had in 17 years, I’m hoping for much more than that.
In the end, it doesn’t really matter how much I work in a certain field though, does it? So many things don’t matter. Remembering life is always too short though, does. As I neared the 40 milestone, I only wanted to be excited for it. I wanted to rebel against a former version of myself that never wanted to be 40 because I thought it meant something different than it does. I honestly don’t know exactly what 40 means other than it seemed to always be portrayed as some scary milestone that I’d never actually reach … until … well, I did. And you did. Or you will. Hopefully.
Do we ever know what our age means while we’re in it? Did we feel 20 at 20 and 30 at 30? Did we under-age ourselves, or did we - what I think is much more common - overage ourselves? Did we tell ourselves we were too old “to drink that much,” “to stay up that late,” “to eat that kind of food,” “to attend that concert,” “to take that trip,” “to go back to school,” “to start a business,” “to wear those clothes,” “to find a partner/leave a partner,” “to try that hobby.” If we did tell ourselves those things, did we later think differently? Did we later realize how goddamn young we’ve always been?
Once upon a time, a 24-year-old Manette wrote about feeling old because she had to buy two packs of candles for her 25th birthday cake. This year, I’d have preferred to light all 40 candles like we were going to burn the house down. Only one was lit because we ended up eating my brownies late on my birthday - these photos were taken at 10:51 p.m., to be exact - and we didn’t want to deal. But I tell you what - one of these days, I’m going to make another pan of brownies, light all the fucking candles, let them blaze while I cackle at the absurdity of it all, make another wish, blow them all out, let the smoke create silhouettes of dancers that waltz toward the sky, and send out this signal -
I’m glad to be young and alive!
