The Truth About Turning 40

I’ve been working up to this day my whole life.

Like a lighthouse flashing in the distance, I always knew it was coming. What started as a faint pinprick of an idea grew ever brighter as the gap between me and it dwindled from years to months to mere days.

40.

Four. Zero. Forty. As in, 40 years old. The age that is traditionally celebrated with black streamers, “Over the Hill” foam headstones and lots and lots of cards that state simply, “You’re old.”

I vaguely remember my parents’ 40th birthdays. They seemed ancient at the time. I distinctly remember my oldest brother’s 40th birthday. He seemed practically prehistoric too. Even just last year as close friends started graduating from their 30s, it barely crossed my mind that someday soon that would be me.

Well, that someday is here. And – brace yourselves – it actually doesn’t suck.

For one thing, being 40 means no longer having the threat of 40 looming over me. I no longer get wide-eyed “You’re turning 40?!” responses when the topic of my birthday comes up. I don’t have to wonder what it will be like to one day check the 40-49 age demographic category. It’s here, I survived, life goes on.

But more than just breaking the seal of middle age, I’ve discovered turning 40 opens up some pretty amazing things.

I can wear the exact same outfit as yesterday (without the legitimate excuse of having an infant) and not give a rat’s rear end whether you notice or not. I dress for me. Because I like it and I think it looks good, not because I hope you’ll think it looks good. And more often than not, I like yoga pants.

Saturday is just another day of the week. There’s no pressure to go out or drink fancy cocktails if all I really want to do is stay in with my family, order pizza and watch Netflix. Hangovers are for 39 year olds.

Life altering changes are largely behind me. I’ve changed careers, earned an advanced degree, changed careers again and gone through both successful and unsuccessful infertility treatments. I may have lost my shot at becoming the first female President (sorry, 10-year old me) or professional tennis player, but I have zero regrets about making the choices and changes I have.

My husband is still hot. At 25, I remember the question of what my then boyfriend would look like as he aged. Well, now I know. And I couldn’t be happier with the outcome.

I’m comfortable with slippers, slipper socks, pajama pants and all things comfortable. Before 6pm. I don’t have to worry about last minute happy hour plans derailing my plans to decompress. I can ditch the bra with confidence that no one but my family will have the pleasure of seeing my pre-pajama pajamas.

Flats all day, every day. Because at 40 I’ve finally accepted that high heels are the work of the devil.

My friends are my real friends. In my 20s, I had no idea who I was. I wasn’t confident in my opinions or talents and felt like I had to continually prove myself. In my 30s, I worked on figuring out who I was. Now that I’m 40, I finally just get to be me. The friends who have stuck around and the new friends that have arrived know who I am, not who I’m trying to be. Which, I think, makes me a better friend too.

I’m okay with my weird toes. And my third nipple that looks like a mole but – and I know this without a shadow of a doubt because my dermatologist told me – is really a nipple.

Swimsuits don’t scare me. I’m not expected to have the lithe body of a 20-something or the hips of teenager. I’m 40, goshdarnit. Now hand me my caftan and sunhat.

Comparisons are worthless. Sure, that woman might be prettier than me and this other lady might have a bigger house. But they also might have a sick child or chronic IBS. Who knows? It’s taken me 40 years, but I have finally and truly learned that these comparisons do nothing but make me feel inferior.

Saving feels better than spending. No, seriously. Stashing an extra bit of dough in our IRA brings with it a high better than any cashmere sweater that I won’t wear by next year. Retirement is only 25 years away, after all.

I’m building resiliency. Criticism used to crush me. Conflict paralyzed me. I was an approval addict. But now that I’ve hit 40, I don’t care as much about what others think of my hair, my dog’s skittishness or my son’s need to ask 47 questions in less than a minute. If people want to judge what I’ve done or said, well, sticks and stones, y’all.

I’ve realized I’m getting older. I know, newsflash. This article is about turning 40 after all. But what I’ve come to understand now more than ever is that I have one shot at this whole life thing. That’s it. So if there’s something I want to accomplish or experience, I should just do it. Not tomorrow, not next week, now.

So my thighs aren’t what they were in my 20s. My knees crackle and crunch when I stand up. But every time I look in the mirror, I see someone who is blissfully surprised at just how good things are. And I’ll take that over 20 any day.