We’ve had a big year of birthdays in our house. The Boy turned 13. I turned 40. This past week, The Man turned 40, too. That’s not to say that we didn’t make The Girl’s birthday special, too, but dang, one family can only handle so much. Eleven isn’t that big of a deal. I kid, I kid. She’s a perfect special snowflake.
Having a 13-year-old in the house is a little strange from time to time, but kids getting older, although sad at times, is fairly awesome. They’re turning into cool people. They don’t hate me. Yet.
I told y’all already I’m cool with 40. I love being 40. Many of my friends are forty or over, and I’m happy to join them. A few funny people out there like joking about my being old and whatnot. Those folks are usually younger and think forty is eons away. They also think they’re funny.
Admittedly, it was a sort of strange when my husband turned 40 this week, but not in the way you might think.
First, there’s something y’all need to understand. Everyone, everyone, everyone, tells me how young my husband looks. We get it on a regular basis. He knows it. He has good genes, which means he doesn’t wrinkle. He has sparkly blue eyes and perfect white teeth (thanks, Trotter Orthodontics!). I’m the old hag.
I’m four months older than he. Four months. He loves to say he’s with an older woman. We were both born in 1977. Same age. However, he does look better. I’m happy to have married a younger man. See how that works?
The part of his 40th birthday that was so interesting was this: I love that he’s here, too. It’s like we’re both part of a club. Besides age, there aren’t specific rules or requirements for the club, but it’s pretty exclusive. There isn’t early admittance. You have to simply wait your turn. Its membership is overwhelmingly confident and relatively drama free, and they become better looking by the day.
What’s up with that, anyway? When I see old pictures of my friends, they’re more attractive now. Is that because we used to dress horribly, in hypercolor shirts and JAMS? Was it the bangs? I’ll bet it was the bangs.
We have things to contend with such as less hair, and the remaining hair is turning gray. There’s also the issue of more hair in places that don’t make sense, but maybe I’m the only one. One glass of wine will give me a headache, and I can’t eat a piece of cake without at least wishing I’d gone to the gym. I’m not saying I’ll go to the gym. I’ll wish I did, though.
We also know less. And more. And knowing less is more. The little I do know, I feel fairly sure about. If not, I’ll ask. If I don’t ask, it’ll all work out anyway. We take the time to be with people. Our people. They matter most, and we never know when our time with them will end. Life is short. Life is grand.
Welcome to the club, babe. No one believes you’re forty. I’ll always be your cougar. Cheers!