Three months ago turning forty didn't seem so bad, in fact, it seemed somewhat exciting. I made my little, unrealistic "to do" list for the year. I mean my thirties were far better than my twenties, so I was ready to take it to the next level....c'mon forty. Bring it. Show me what you got.
However, two days before this momentous occasion I'm not feeling so adventurous right now. I just feel so. Not. Thirty-something. As if my own body has prepared to cross this bridge to the middle-aged side, I have dark circles under my eyes that seem to shout to the world "I'm going to be forty and look, it ain't so pretty!". And, the most startling question remains...Am I now too old to wear flip-flops?
Don't get me wrong...I'm still smiling (despite worrying that all that smiling and laughing I do is wreaking havoc on my crow's feet and every other wrinkle on my face). I moisturize and color my hair a little more often than I used to. Bermuda shorts are as short and daring as I will go and I'm considering a one-piece bathing suit with an ankle length skirt sewn into it (something circa 1902, VINTAGE, baby). But, it's still me....busy little bee. I can still cartwheel through the backyard and somersault off the diving board (neither of which is graceful in the least bit, but I do not kill myself performing them and that's what really matters). I can get three different kids to three different activities within a thirty-mile radius all in the same night, find them all at some point, and bring them back home. And, of course, I'm still leaping those tall buildings in a single bound...or, something like that.
Forty...not quite over the hill, more like reaching the peak and enjoying the view for a season (I hope!)!