My birthday is this weekend (no, I am not fishing for well wishes…but hey, if you want to send them, by all means), and it is the big one; and as much as I would like to pretend I’m 29, unfortunately the age I’m turning begins with an F. Yes, the all-powerful, all-fearing F word. And yes, I aim to spend the next forty-eight hours walking the streets of London telling anyone that will listen that I am in my thirties for every moment I have left. Fine, I’m not totally at peace with this whole changing decades thing, so I’m still working on acceptance. Judge me if you must.
It’s amazing what this particular milestone can do to a person. Suddenly I am realizing that not only am I in a different box on some administrative forms, but I am now technically middle-aged and the youth of the world will probably start referring to me as ‘Mam’. (Although a construction worker the other day called me princess so I’ll focus on that instead). Ah yes, middle-aged: that lovely euphemism that attempts to soften the blow but really makes you sound like an era steeped in boredom.
Birthdays of this magnitude are often cause for reflection (or total denial): what the heck have been doing for the past forty years? Am I more mature, confident? Have I accomplished what I have sought after? Have I ticked the various boxes in terms of dreams and goals…Is my ass in the same place it was five years ago? You know, the important things in life.
So this birthday I have decided the following: I am going to kick its ass and let it know that I am in charge. Middle aged, be damned. I am barely-aged. I am perfectly aged. I am superior-aged gosh darn it! As my father said to me the other day, ‘don’t worry little girl (he likes to call me that, and at this point, it feels a lot better than Mam), it’s all mental, it is just a number.’ Too right, Pops.
More importantly, here is what am I NOT going to do this birthday: I am not going feel sorry for myself. I am not going to start buying ‘Mom’ jeans and dressing as if I spend most of my time at the library (although I do love the library). I am not going to give up doing things in fear that people my age shouldn’t do them (where are those roller-skates and leg warmers?), even though I may end up at the chiropractor. And most importantly, when someone calls me Mam, I am going to politely tell them that I am to be referred to as Hot Stuff, or Kick-Ass Bitch in the best decade of all. Here’s to 40, I laugh in the face of you! Ha!!.....now where is that super thick night cream I just bought?