T minus > 1 month or something
Forty is looming. Every day for the past year, that number has been glued to a revolving door in my head. I can forget it for a time, until some belligerent insecurity pushes in and gets the door going, and that giant hateful boulder of FORTY is popping its muscles in and out, looking all intimidating like the linemen in a high school hallway waiting to play "pinball" with the underclassmen, until the door stops flailing around and the big rock goes to recess for a bit.
Listen, I know it's not the end of life. It's maybe not even the middle of life, and I'm glad to be here. However, I'm not just almost 40 years old. I'm almost-forty-and-what-the-hell-have-I-done-with-my-life years old. That is a scary year to be, my friends.
I've tried a million and three coping mechanisms over the past few months. I've written a 40 before 40 list; revised my bucket list; nearly quit my job because it's not even on the long list of what I want to be when I grow up; made a list of things I'm too old to do now (that was not a helpful list); a list of new lines, hair loss and age spots (also unhelpful); a list of friends; a list of pets I like (turns out, it's just kittens); a list of my favorite things; and the list of lists goes on. In hindsight, I have just spent the last months of my 30's making ridiculous lists that are not actually going to help me cope with becoming forty, a.k.a. the Impending Doom of Age Versus Accomplishment.
Today, the lists end. Lists are sedentary, and I need action. I need a plan. I need to fall in love with becoming forty, because otherwise it IS essentially the end of life, and I want more. I want to be happy-with-my-life years old. I need this to happen now, because the next looming milestone is forgot-where-I-put-my-wine-glass-AGAIN years old, and the leaves have already begun to turn on that grapevine.
Listen, I know it's not the end of life. It's maybe not even the middle of life, and I'm glad to be here. However, I'm not just almost 40 years old. I'm almost-forty-and-what-the-hell-have-I-done-with-my-life years old. That is a scary year to be, my friends.
I've tried a million and three coping mechanisms over the past few months. I've written a 40 before 40 list; revised my bucket list; nearly quit my job because it's not even on the long list of what I want to be when I grow up; made a list of things I'm too old to do now (that was not a helpful list); a list of new lines, hair loss and age spots (also unhelpful); a list of friends; a list of pets I like (turns out, it's just kittens); a list of my favorite things; and the list of lists goes on. In hindsight, I have just spent the last months of my 30's making ridiculous lists that are not actually going to help me cope with becoming forty, a.k.a. the Impending Doom of Age Versus Accomplishment.
Today, the lists end. Lists are sedentary, and I need action. I need a plan. I need to fall in love with becoming forty, because otherwise it IS essentially the end of life, and I want more. I want to be happy-with-my-life years old. I need this to happen now, because the next looming milestone is forgot-where-I-put-my-wine-glass-AGAIN years old, and the leaves have already begun to turn on that grapevine.
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