40

40.

Four. Zero.

Everything I want to say about this change of decade sounds totally trite or cliché or makes me cringe and jam my finger on the delete button.

But I have to talk about it anyway. I’m leaving my thirties behind. I went from being the youngest of my high school friends (thank you summer birthday) to being the oldest of the friends I spend the most time with now (and they never let me forget it) and turning forty is scary and exciting and…weird. It’s weird. Like, am I an old lady now? Will a kind birthday crone arrive on July 28th to present me with my official old lady gear (I’m thinking a loose-fitting flowered shirt, a pair of capris with a pressed crease down the front, white orthotic shoes, and a fanny pack filled with hard candy, tissues, and Advil) welcoming me to the decade that seems like the end of all things young and fun and the beginning of aches and pains and wrinkles and sags and returning fruit to the grocery store when it goes bad?

Or am I just being dramatic?

No, cant be. That would never happen.

I don’t feel forty. I didn’t feel thirty and that was ten years ago. Do we ever feel how old we really are? When I was a kid, forty might’ve been a hundred. Forty was old. Now it’s this weekend.

Crossing into the next decade feels important, like I’ve got to check my bullshit at the door because it’s not welcome or allowed anymore. I probably should’ve had this conversation with myself when I turned thirty, but I wasn’t ready. Now, staring down the barrel of thirty-nine, it’s not funny getting wasted or doubting myself about everything or blasting Nelly when Country Grammar plays during the throwback lunch hour (okay, I still do this, but discreetly and respectfully…with my windows rolled up and sunglasses on).

Bad jokes aside, there are some things that just can’t come with me into 40, so I’ve been cleaning house. Here are some of the shit habits and mental and emotional clutter I’ve released:

Drinking alcohol every night…and I do mean every night since college, with the exception of when I was pregnant and for five months after I returned from Brazil.

Fear of having a baby…because I had one, and it’s scarier than any fear I ever had beforehand.

Being so hard on myself.

Chiari pain (95% of the time; the other 5% still kills).

Being so, so, sooooo hard on myself.

Daily prescription medication.

Eating fast food…almost every day…sometimes more than once.

Being ridiculously, painfully, shamefully hard on myself.

Obsessive fear.

Extreme OCD…checking the stove and door locks once a night is enough.

Believing I’m worthless.

Questioning where I am and regrets over not being somewhere (or someone) else…because where I am and who I have become are actually pretty awesome.

And did I mention I stopped being so freaking hard on myself?

Works in progress are releasing the knee-jerk anger response to daily stress, being a better partner, trusting myself, believing in my writing abilities, becoming healthier in my body, letting go (albeit slowly) of comparison and being less judgmental—of myself and everyone else. There’s always more work to do but at least I’ve managed to shed some of the really awful, damaging, and downright embarrassing things that would’ve otherwise followed me across the threshold into the decade of true adult things, where that immature and unevolved crap does not belong.

And now…40. Well, you caught me. And that’s okay because I’m ready. Bring it on, crone! I look forward to what you have in store.

(But you can keep the fanny pack. I already have one).