Ah, I remember it like it were yesterday.
The lady who lived across the street and a few houses down was turning 40. FORTY! I thought, how is she not dead? She was turning 40, and her husband got up early and erected a big old sign in the front lawn.
“Good Lordy, Whats-her-name is 40!”
(I can’t remember what her first name was, I am certain he used it though, and did not call her Whats-her-name.)
I heard my Mom and
the biddies some of the other upstanding adult women from the neighborhood gossiping engaging in intelligent conversation based only on facts and not conjecture about the big four-oh for Whats-her-name, and it appeared that her gift back to him for his surprise was a nice packet of divorce papers.
Forty-year-olds, I thought, are weird.
I really wondered if I would not handle 40 well. Would I curl up in the corner denying the age process? Would I do something stupid to prove I’m still young (I mean, I am — go ask a group of Baby Boomers if they think 40 is old) like jump out of a high place with only a hand-sewn piece of rayon to keep me from splattering to earth? Would I storm into Forever 21 demanding service?
As it turns out, though, I’m not even a little bit annoyed. I’m so unbothered to be 40, the only thing bothering me is why I’m not more bothered. I think, maybe, it’s helpful to be the youngest of five. When everyone goes through it first, including one of them hitting the big FIVE-oh before you even get to FOUR-oh…
…well, then maybe you just aren’t as annoyed or scared or desperate to divorce your husband at 40 like old Mrs. Whats-her-name was.
I did wake up with a sore hip.
But rather than LAMENT the passing of time, I decided to take a look back at the last decade. Did I spend my time wisely in my 30’s? Was I properly mature and responsible while still being fun and full of awesome (I think we all know it’s a resounding YES to the awesome part, but that’s just a given). Did I properly leave my 30’s as a graduated member of the Generation X Dirty-30 Club, as well as an honored and respectable alumna of Volvo-Driving Soccer Mom University (those might actually be the same thing).
In pictures, I think, it looks like I had a good time.
Let’s take a look!
Age 30 ~ I couldn’t find any digital photos, so at a minimum, I really AM showing my age. Here I am with a sweet two-year-old Hank.
Age 31 ~ Fulfilled Mom and Dad’s dream by finding some fool to marry me and take me and my kid off their hands. They actually would have preferred if I left Hank behind, but as it turns out, he was Jim’s dowry.
Age 32 ~ I spent most of this year with a baby either in my uterus or attached to a bosom or hip.
How cute is George?
And how enormous are my jugs?
Age 33 ~ I looked sexy in yellow.
And I inappropriately sat on Jesus’ lap.
Age 34 ~ I continued the family tradition of getting your father drunk, and looking uncomfortable at the fair, and making sure to suck in when you stand next to a pregnant woman for a photo so you look extra skinny!!.
Age 35 ~ 8th Grade reunion? Yes please! It’s weird that I’m the only one in the photo proudly holding my beer, right?
And of course, we took this sweet shot with Brendan. Big dumb loveable jerk.
Age 36 ~ Kayla and I got dressed all sassy and took photos and went out boozing. It was just like the decade before, only we came home at a reasonable hour because it’s only wise to get a good night’s sleep.
Age 37 ~ The ladies of the Chick Shack visit the big cracked bell. Like you don’t want to party with us. After George graduated I made him get a job, then I relived my younger days by driving to Kansas City on a whim for a ball game with Kayla. Where we again got a decent night’s sleep so we would be refreshed for driving home the next day…
Age 38 ~ If there is one year where pictures show my endless battle with my weight, it’s age 38. First I ran and drank.
Then I took more photos with this fatty.
Then we ruled the field at unaffiliated minor league ball park.
And I mud raced!
(this left quite an ass bruise)
And I turned into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, but at least I finally got to see Ireland!
Age 39 ~ Determined to get my body back in a shape other than round. First I ran another 13.1 miles without even being chased.
Then I held hands with the KGB.
Models became my besties for a brief moment in time.
So as you can see, I think I took advantage of all the things there are for a woman in her 30’s to take advantage of. I reproduced. I
suckered a man into marriage fell in love. I got fat. I got less fat. I went places. I met new people. I exercised. I saw historical artifacts! I made Kayla take photos with me TWICE while pregnant so I looked skinny. I had just a few drinks.
And I managed this:
Granted, this might be more meaningful at 46 or 51, but I was excited, yo. Because Fatty Marney didn’t fit in that a year ago.
So how did 40 start?
Eating breakfast take-out while checking out my new John Denver Greatest Hits album while wearing my Mrs. Kenny readers.
How. Hot. Am. I?
Looking forward to the next 40! Who wants to party with me?
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