Somewhere shortly after midnight, I turned 40. Another year gone by, a new milestone reached. I know lots of folks, women friends specifically, who have a hard time with these “big” birthdays. They refuse to say the number. Pretend like the birthday didn’t happen. Self-medicate with chocolate or wine.
I’m 40. Forty. 4-0. Cuarenta. Quarante. Vierzig, if you speak German. Oh, I like the sound of that. That sounds wise. From here on out, when anyone asks how old I am, I’m going to reply “veirzig.”
I don’t stress over birthdays. My life is no better or worse today than it was when I woke yesterday. I suppose it would be easy to get caught up in the worries that my life is not where I thought it would be when I turned 40. Because it isn’t. It is better.
Ten years ago, I celebrated my 30th birthday as a single woman, surrounded by friends at our local watering hole. Today, my day was started with happy birthday wishes from my husband and daughter. The county decided to grade our road. I’ve gotten texts and Facebook messages from old friends, and well wishes from new friends I’ve made in the last 10 years. I also have an evening out with my little family, birthday brownies, presents and a trip to Vegas with Outdoor Guy coming up.
Forty is awesome. Or should I say veirzig ist genial. Veirzig ist genial.