Age is Just a Number ( but so is 666)

I hate that my birthday snuck up on me again. I've been ignoring it for almost three months, but unlike pesky telemarketers, the current brainless fads and my dentist reminding me of my missed appointment, it just will NOT go away. I therefore must face the cold harsh truth. I'm one, teeny, tiny year (or more precisely, 9 months) away from the big FOUR O. There's something infinitely more horrible about being 39 than being any other age -- it just seems so well...OLD. It's so horrible to me that every time one more person tells me age is a state of mind or that age is just a number, I worry that I'll end up in court on charges of assault and physical injuries if i don't restrain the urge to hurt them. Instead, I retort "Yes it is. And so is 666". It was perfectly fine when my husband turned 40. That's fine. I don't mind being married to a 40 year old, I just don't want to be one myself. And yet, here I am barely nine months away from my 40th birthday. Now before all the 40-year-olds and older organize a lynch mob to hunt me down and dismember me, let me well...as my blog says...defend my life. I have nothing against growing old. It IS inevitable after all. I just resent the fact that the last twenty years of my life seems to have just dissipated into thin air. One minute, I was in my dorm room in UP where my most serious dilemma was deciding what to wear (i.e. baston pants? stirrups?) and whether or not my Three Hundred Peso weekly allowance could possibly stretch long enough to cover yet another clandestine trip to Tia Maria's with Rutchie, Michelle and Ekay and then, bamm! here I am, balancing a check book and checking the business section of the newspaper for the current forex rates. Yikes. I'm working in a BANK for crying out loud. (The 17 year old me is probably cringing like I just uttered the words of death). What happened to the girl who could survive on three hours of sleep, party all night and still make it to an 8:30 class (running all the way from Molave to AS at that!) ? I now find her sleepy at 10:00 pm and a useless zombie unless recharged by at least six hours of sleep. A few months ago, a (much younger) friend invited me to her party at Alchemy - apparently "the" place to be (which may have changed by now, but for the life of me, I don't know). I was excited to go, notwithstanding the fact that I had a very demanding 3 year old waiting for me at home. I excitedly announced over lunch that I would be coming to the party but that I could only stay 'til eleven. A few embarrassing moments later, I was advised that parties now don't even START until eleven. Hmmmmmm. (I am apparently even more out of it than I thought.) And don't get me started on the shocking metamorphosis from a size 2 to a size 8 which inexplicably happens overnight once you hit 35. One night you go to sleep looking perfectly fine and wake up the next morning to find that a sneaky, evil elf somehow snuck into your closet and SHRUNK all your clothes!! (Or maybe you just got fat.) Turning forty is no big deal if you're one of those 40-year-olds who already has BMW, a yacht, the 2.5 kids, the house with the white picket fence and a pension plan all set for when you retire. But if you're a mommy with a 4 year old, going hormonal from the fertility treatments your OB GYN insisted you MUST have to have a baby before you turn 40, with bills that seem to magically multiply if you ignore them for more than two days, your 40th birthday is not exactly something to celebrate. Just thinking of all the things I still need to accomplish in the next twenty years is making my almost-forty-year-old brain go into migraine mode in self-defense. (Short break while I run to the bathroom to check for new lines on my forehead). That being said, I love my life. I have a beautiful, adorable daughter (who ahem....everyone says looks like me) and a husband who loves me enough to put up with my periodic bouts of insanity. And although I need to give away the size 2 clothing and give up the hope of ever fitting into them again, I think I look ok considering my age. Thus, in an attempt to mitigate the psychological blows of being almost forty, I have dredged the utmost reaches of my brain to list 10 things to think about and may be even celebrate, as an older (and may I add) wiser, soon-to-be-forty year old:

1. Your favorite pants from the ‘80s are back! They have been re-born as “skinny jeans” (baston pants, anyone?!!) and as long as acid wash doesn't come back into fashion too, I find that I am once more, a reasonably fashionable woman.

2. Younger women may not have weight loss issues, but then again, they can't afford the liposuction. Now cheer up, because YOU CAN.

3. It's extremely non-constructive to get depressed about your age. Go shopping. (A pair of new shoes never hurt anyone.)

4. Life is short. Don’t settle for salad or for frumpy shoes when you can have steak and buy stilettos. If God meant for me to eat vegetables all the time, He would have made me a rabbit.

(And no, the shoes don't hurt THAT bad -- as long as I don't walk long distances or stand up for more than 2 minutes.)

5. PMS is not necessarily a bad thing…it has been used as a perfectly legal a defense for manslaughter.

6. At our age, you have earned the right to occasionally be a cruel, heartless bitch…just make sure that when you are, you’re damn good at it!

7. You are not really a nagging wife, think of yourself as a motivational speaker.

8. Chocolate is your friend. When was the last time you heard a Hershey bar attack anyone?

9. The restorative powers and health benefits of a new lipstick are highly underrated.

10. And lastly, remember that girl from college you used to hate? You know, the one that was pretty, who had the nicest clothes, had boys falling in line and was so cheerful and perky that you had to stifle the urge to smack her every time you saw her surrounded by her fans in CASAA? Well, the good news is, she's turning 40 too!

Remind me again about these things in 9 months - it may just be enough to stop me from the indignity of lying about my age. At the very least, it will give me an excuse to go shopping and buy new shoes.