February 22, 2013 by talkaboutyork
In exactly one week’s time, I will no longer be in my thirties. I will have lived four full decades. I’m not sure why four decades is any more remarkable than any other number. But for some reason, turning 40 is a big deal.
Is it because it officially marks the end of your youth? Is it the halfway point in life? Is it when you’re really and truly a grown up? Does it mean that I have to put my converse trainers out to pasture and stop thinking I look cool when I dance? (I do by the way…)
If the late 30s are anything to go by, it means that gravity takes no prisoners. The pull of the earth seems to drag everything downwards – breasts, arse, bags under eyes, chin(s). Perhaps it’s the earth’s way of introducing you gradually to where you will (sooner rather than later) be spending eternity – the ground.
But that is a melancholic thought. So let’s be more cheerful.
They say that life begins at forty.
Perhaps it’s because I’m not yet forty that I don’t understand this statement. Perhaps all will be revealed when I wake up next Friday and go, ‘Oh, so this is where life really begins. All that other stuff has just been a trial run.’
I know from reading enough
shite women’s magazines that once you turn 40, you’re supposed to finally accept who you are, find peace with yourself, enjoy what you have and not what you don’t, feel confident and happy and obviously become sensationally hot in that ‘effortlessly elegant older women’ kind of way (that requires absolutely no botox or magic potions obviously).
Forty is the new thirty. Apparently it rocks. If it doesn’t, please let me remain misinformed.
If this post seems as though I’m feeling down about turning 40, I’m not. Really. No seriously. It’s just that I’ve always been a bit of a sentimentalist and a dreamer. I’m the kind of person who every New Year’s Eve needs to think back on the past year and weigh it up. So a big birthday like this makes me introspective and wistful and nostalgic and self-critical and overly analytical. Gosh I am a barrel of laughs.
I’ve decided that over the next few days I will write a blog post for each decade that I have lived as a way to remind myself of what has made me what I am today. A birthday present to myself. So that perhaps next week, when my birthday rolls around, I will have a clear sense of where I’ve come from and a solid foundation to kick off my next forty years. Or perhaps I’ll just go with the flow. Because I think that’s what you’re meant to do when you’re forty.