So, I turn 40 today and I want to vomit. Mostly the vomit part is due to my gastroparesis, a complication of the old Betes, but the number on my non-existent cake doesn't help.
Yesterday on my FB status, I said,
"When I was younger, every year as I got older, I thought, "In your face!" directed at the doctors who told me I'd probably only live until 25. I would celebrate knowing I conquered another year. It was an accomplishment. Somewhere along the way, I began dreading birthdays, seeing them only as one step closer to the inevitable. I want to be that 'younger' Susie again. The one who sees joy rather than dread no matter what the number. (Wouldn't mind less 'sagging' too So, even as I fight the anxiety of my upcoming milestone I will say, 'Screw it! I made it so far!! It's time to Partaaaay!!'"
Well, that's who I want to be. Apparently I'm not quite there yet.
As I counted down the minutes on the clock last night, I offhandedly stated that I had less than an hour in my 30's. Then I promptly burst into tears. Really Susie? Really? Because of a number?
As I sat there having my pity party, (Hey, I did say it was time to Partaaaay! ;) Mr. Man asked what was upsetting me. Was it that I'd feel older? It's just a day, he said. No. That's not it. Was it that I would look older? It's just a day, he said. No. That's not it either. Was it that things get all saggy and such? It's just a day, he said. Well, that's already happening so, no, that's not it.
As the tears squirted out a little more violently I blurted, "It's my cool factor. It'll be totally gone." At which point he reminded me he is in his forties, thank you very much.
"But I kept you cool! Now we are in a different category. We are {choke} middle aged."
I have the pleasure of filling out a lot of medical questionnaires, what with so many doctors and specialists on my dance card. Now I'll have to check that box. You know the one. The one that says I'm too young to not know my hospital gown is on backwards and open to the world revealing {ahem} bits, but too old to wear hot pants whilst on that dance floor without looking like a Cougar. Wait. Nope. Puma. Apparently that's what a woman on the hunt is called in her 40's. Ugh. I've even graduated cat-on-the-prowl categories.I went on to explain to Mr. Man that it felt mentally not only like a day, or even a years leap. I might as well be going from 39 to 75.
Forty, an F word of the nastiest sort, has too many other friends with the same initial: Fat, Frumpy, Freak Show, Foot Rot, Fatigue, Foggy, Faux Pas, Frustration, Foreboding, Flawed, Fibroids, Frozen Shoulder, Fraxinella (look that one up!) and last but definitely not least, Fossilised.
I realize I have more than likely just insulted, angered or at least alienated many friends and readers with all this babble. Let me be clear. I have some very hip-happening older (See? Ugh.) friends, and by that I mean anywhere from 41 to 80, whom I dearly love and admire. This glitchy perspective in my head applies only to me.
I suppose not all F words are bad. Fashionista, fun, funny, flawless, freedom, free spirit, fine, firm (as opposed to flabby), friendly, frilly, Friday and last but not least, frisky all have their benefits and can be applied to a 40-year-old.
I guess I have a decision to make. My options are limited so I will stare forty in the face and say, "F-F-F-Fine! I will vomit purely for physical reasons and get over myself. Old(er) friends, move over. I'm joining your club. Please teach me how to still be cool? (As if I ever was!)
Oh and did I mention I'm going to Milan, one of the four fashion capitals of the world, to celebrate?
K. I'll shut up now.
;)
