Forty Isn't Old, If You're a Tree

Previously published in Coastal Illustrated Jan. 25, 2012

              It’s here. 

 The dreaded date of destiny.  The feared and ominous milestone.  The very day for which black balloons were made and filled with helium for.   That’s right, my fortieth birthday has finally arrived.

            People who have already reluctantly crossed, kicking and screaming, through this rite of passage have all sorts of sage advice.   Evidently, these are to be the best years of my life, these years that follow forty.   I have finally arrived at the point in time where my life will ultimately, at long last, begin.  I guess that means I haven’t really been doing a whole heck of a lot these past forty years, but you could have fooled me, because I’m so bone tired I can sleep standing up while holding two children, a bag of groceries, a 12 pack of Diet Coke, and 22 pound purse with a dog tethered to it.

I don’t buy it.  All of this heavy lifting, both physical and emotional, have to count for something.  And seeing as I still posses two children, a dog, three cats, and one husband, I don’t see it being all about “me” anytime soon.

Then, people who still have multiple years to go until they reach 40--- years that stretch out like miles and miles of white, glistening sandy beach under a bright blue sky--- tell me they are a tad bit envious.  They are looking forward to the day when they will finally feel comfortable in their own skin (even if hangs a little looser.) the day when they won’t let the little things bother them so much (because they won’t be able to remember what they are in the first place unless they wrote them down a scrap of paper that they will never again find, let alone be able to read without holding it three feet in front them.)

I don’t buy this, either.  Because I can see the fear behind their unlined eyes and hidden deep beneath their uncreased foreheads as they try and convince me it’s a good thing….turning forty.   It’s also because when they find out my birthday is imminent, they back away from me slowly, as if I harbor a terrible disease they don’t want to catch.  Come on, I really don’t think I’ll feel one bit wiser on January 28^th, than I was on January 27^th.  More than likely, I’ll just wake up a few hundred brain cells lighter and two and half pounds heavier with a crick in my neck and a cramp in my foot.

Next, according to my children, I don’t look a day over fifty-five.  Actually, I look pretty gosh darn good for someone who was born in the 1900’s…you know, like a totally different century and millennium, they like to tell me.  When they study history in school, I wonder if they picture me riding along side Paul Revere on a horse carrying a lantern or sitting fireside with Betsey Ross without a TV or Internet access, holding just a needle and some thread, drinking a cup of tea and eating bread.    It seems I have to remind them now and again that although I did not have a cell phone or a scooter that shoots out sparks and glows in the dark when I was their age, I didn’t ride the horse and buggy to the school and back, either.

Me, I don’t buy into the fact they really think I’m ancient, or old enough to have once hung out with Eleanor Roosevelt.  For a child, age really isn’t all that relevant.  For them, only one thing is certain, they just don’t want to grow up.  I guess we all still feel that way, especially as we approach a milestone birthday like forty.

I remember as a child I never gave turning forty a fleeting thought.  Why would I when I was busy catching fireflies to put in mason jars and playing hide and seek with friends under the canopies of rows and rows of Magnolia trees in the backyard?  Even though I loved those trees, I didn’t want to be like them, stuck in one place no matter how lovely, unable to move.  Who had time to grow old when there was so much to do? 

A strange thing happened to me right before my 40^th birthday.  I lost my voice, literally.  I woke up one morning and couldn’t talk.  It actually seemed kind of funny to me, if you want to know the truth.  As is maybe I’d talked way too much, yelled, laughed, sung, and squabbled my fair share away.  Maybe I had one too many heart-to- hearts and one-on-ones.  Maybe I had “chewed the fat” one too many times.

It’s a strange sensation, not being able to talk when you want to, voice an opinion, or communicate with the ones you love.  That’s why I was relieved when I woke up the next day- another day, another year, another decade older and not necessarily wiser- but I woke up never-the-less and my voice was back. 

I could conclude only two things.

I will never stop loving fireflies in jars and the safe canopy of a still Magnolia tree, but most importantly, it seems, I still have a lot more to say.