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Yesterday, June 1, 2008. I turned forty years-old. Four. Zero. For-ty. Somewhere in my brain there was a feeling that I should worry about this. And I tried for a bit. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that at forty I have none of the life hallmarks of mid-life crisis. I have no “real” job — not yet, anyway. I’m still a student. I don’t own anything. No house. No car. No investments. It’s hard to feel in a rut when nothing in my life has been permanent.
And that impermanence — that uncertainty about life — has been a great source of my best adventures. Hey, why not try drumming? What’s the worse that could happen? I’d suck at it. Not a first. Why not try being buddhist? What’s the worse that can happen? I’d suck at it. Not a first. The years into my forties have been about being curious and exploring the things that intrigued me.
I have a friend who turned forty and had no reluctance about it. In her late thirties she got divorced, lost weight, and began a new career that she loves. When I asked her what it was like to turn forty, she said: “I was single and hot. Forty was great with me! It was the thirties that sucked.”
Forty is great. The thirties weren’t bad. And the twenties is a lost in a haze of unconsciousness.
How did the Short Punks household celebrate? Birthday presents in the morning, Ethiopian food for lunch, naps in the afternoon, and the day ended with a massage and a long, fun phone conversation with an old friend.
And, of course, the annual Birthday-Cake-with-Animals picture.
Corralling two cats and a rabbit ain’t easy, but we did it.
Happy Birthday to me!