Countdown to 40: T-Minus 51 weeks

Last week I turned 39. THIRTY-NINE. To me, that just sounds old. Darn old.

Now, please don’t take offense if YOU are 39 or older. It doesn’t sound old on you, just me. Maybe that’s because I can read my own thoughts, and my thoughts are not those of an almost-40-something. In fact, most of the time, they’re pretty immature. My thoughts are still running around in tight-rolled jeans and a KISS “Crazy Nights Tour” t-shirt. (My thoughts are also a tight-bellied size 6.)

I wish I was one of those people for whom age isn’t an issue. Such things usually don’t bother me. I’m usually such a “Whatever happens, happens” kind of girl. (Thanks be to God and my friend Effexor XR.) Not wanting to turn 40 is so cliche, it’s embarrassing. It makes me think of middle-aged women who insist on shopping in the Juniors section, sporting too-tight t-shirts that say, “Team Edward” or “Boys Suck!” It makes me think of “The Real Housewives of Orange County,” which in turn makes me want to poke my eyes out with a pencil. The thought that I could have anything in common with those women is enough to make me run with open arms toward the section of the department store that sells silky two-piece jogging suits and sweatshirts with the fake scalloped collar and a picture of a cat playing with a ball of yarn embroidered on the front. (Again, please don’t take offense if you currently own such items of clothing. Remember, it’s not you, it’s me.)

I know, I know. It’s time to face the music, accept the milestone that is to come. But like the John Mayer song says, “This is bound to take a while.” (Although what he’s singing about sounds a lot more fun…) So I’m giving myself time — 52 weeks, to be exact. By February 24, 2012, I’m going to be able to look 40 straight in the eye, flash a sly smile and say, “Bring it on, biatch!”

How am I going to do this, you ask? Hmm, good question, I answer. Would you believe me if I told you I had it all figured out, had a plan all sketched out and ready to go? No, I didn’t think so. That’s so not me. Instead, I have some jumbled, fuzzily formed, semi-focused bites of ideas that will continue to simmer as I ponder life and looks and age and attitude.

Here are, for example, some random thoughts I plucked from my cerebral stock pot:

  • Maybe I just need change my perspective. Instead of thinking in terms of years, I should concentrate on the fact that I will be 14,600 days. Then when I go back to thinking 40 years, it won’t seem like that much.
  • Tattoo? Maybe a Liz Lemon quote? Possibilities:
    “Do you need sex advice? Here’s a tip. Sometimes a lady likes to leave her blazer on.”
    “Trying on jeans is my favorite thing. Maybe later I can get a pap smear from an old male doctor.”
    “Mrs. Doubtfire shimself could not do this.”
    “I believe that all anyone really wants in this life is to sit in peace and eat a sandwich.”
  • Shedding 30 pounds should make me feel more confident. I wonder if this can be done without having to sweat or give up Golden Oreos…
  • Think: Distinguished. Experienced. Aged to Perfection. Keep repeating until you can say them without picturing Wilford Brimley or bleu cheese.

I will keep updating you on my progress toward aging gracefully instead of grumpily. I know, you are on the edge of your seat. In the meantime, if you have advice for me, like “Suck it up!” or “Get your nipple pierced!” (Yeah, no.), please leave a comment.

I’ll leave you with a few photos of my birthday last week. I was in Rochester, Minn., staying with my sister-in-law while attending some doctor appointments for Boy #2 (gastrointestinal issues). After sitting through a rough MRI with my boy, I was ready for 1) a drink and 2) chocolate. Fortunately, I got both at dinner! Happy birthday to me!

My SIL sippin’ on a margarita. Mmm…













My MIL enjoying her glass of Reisling. Yumm-o!













I opted for the Cranberry Cosmo. It went down smoooooth. Like buttah. With alcohol in it.













Yeah, that’s me. Roasting a marshmallow. When I saw that Whiskey Creek Wood Fire Grill in Rochester had “Make your own s’mores,” I almost peed my pants. It was SO fun, and SOOOOOO yummy!















Okay, we became a little worried when my SIL’s marshmallow erupted in flames! We could barely stop laughing long enough to blow it out. Good news, though: no fire trucks were dispatched, and her hair is still intact.















This is whatcha call “s’more bliss.” It doesn’t get much better than this!


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