Hey – I’m 40!

So here I am.

40.

Finally.

But, I don’t feel any different.

These are the same arms and legs and hands and feet and eyes and nose and ears and hair as I had yesterday and the day before.

This is the same apartment I woke up in yesterday and the day before.

My closet is still full of my clothes.

My fridge is still empty.

I don’t feel less young or more mature than I did yesterday and the day before.

But somehow, almost magically, I am different. 

Now, when I tell people my age, I won’t get that look of pity.  Aw, poor thing.  She’s 39.  It’s all down hill from here. 

Now, when I tell people my age, I’ll get a look of surprise and words of congratulations.  (I know because I tried it out on some strangers.  A focus group, if you will.  Being 40 tested really high.)

When I’m filling out forms or questionaires, I’ll be in a different age group.

Rather than being the oldest in my running age group (30 – 39), I’ll be the youngest (40 – 49).

There’s something sexy about being 40.

There’s something empowering about being 40.

If I knew it was going to feel this good, I would have done it years ago.

 

 

 

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