Today, I bid adieu to my dirty thirties. And for the record, the only thing particularly dirty about that decade was the never-ending pile of diapers.
In an attempt to infuse as much drama as possible into our lives (because life isn't quite dramatic enough on its own?), we humans have this weird obsession with attaching extra significance to birthdays that end in a zero. When I turned 30, I was exactly where I figured I'd be: career established, and enormously pregnant. 40 is a bit of a different ball game. When you're young, 40 seems so far away you don't even really picture yourself there, and when you start creeping closer, you're wrapped up in a busy life as a thirty-something.
So, where am I supposed to be at 40? Do I try to re-establish my discarded career? Go back to school? Keep doing what I'm doing (which is mostly just surfing Pinterest between loads of laundry)? Make one last desperate attempt to achieve my childhood dream of getting into the roller derby?! Whatever I'm supposed to be doing, I'm hoping it doesn't involve bringing in any more pets.
A recent discussion with my brother, who turned 30 this year, helped me to put this little conundrum into better focus. After I posed all these questions about the meaning of 40, he pointed out that maybe the question isn't what I'm supposed to be doing but what I want to be doing. What a concept!
So today, I celebrate a milestone, I celebrate making it this far, and I celebrate the beginning of a decade of doing whatever the heck I want!
And let's not forget, there are some advantages to being this old:
Now...where did I put my roller skates?