Hello, Forty

Many of my friends are turning forty this year.  I am not among them – no, I just turned 39 thankyouverymuch.  And in case you’re playing along at home, my husband Stewart did a very nice job of making the day special.  We waited until the following evening for the official celebration, when we hired a babysitter and walked the two blocks to the fancy restaurant at the country club.  Le sigh. I love it here.

Anyway.  I have old friends and new friends turning 40 – I just went to the first of at least three 40th birthday parties I will attend before year’s end.  And next year, fuggedaboutit.  Legions of my peers and I will hit this dubious milestone.  My three oldest friends and I are already planning a girls’ weekend at a spa/resort/dance club somewhere in New England (does that even exist?), but I suspect we should all just declare 2011 a “year of celebration” and take the year off, move into a party complex, and pretend we’re turning 21 again.

Except at least 60% of us would throw our backs out, some would never recover from the first hangover, and indeed, there are those of us who can’t even party anymore at all.  Or they don’t want to.

Forty looks so different from 21.  Hell, forty looks different from what I ever envisioned for my life when I was younger.  So, I haven’t found a cure for AIDS, married the football player across the street, or become a model.  I can still do that last one, no?  One thing that I always planned – no, expected – was that I would be happy.

And I am.  So, as I’ve said before, suck it, forty.  My friends who are welcoming you into their demographic information this year are kick-ass, and give me great hope.  Bring it on.