Tim surprised me by gathering a bunch of friends to come over and play.
Such a just-right moment.
I kept telling myself that since my hubby hit the big 40 before me that I was plenty use to hearing it. But somehow when it’s my turn to have the big day it feels profound anyway. It makes me want to freeze-frame time and try to take a mental picture of what it feels like to be 40. So I can pull it out and remember when I’m 50 or 60.
I was subjected the normal over-the-hill razing.
But the comments I wasn’t expecting were the ones that said, “Oh, to be forty again.”, “To be your age and know all the tricks and secrets I know now.”, and “My forties have been the best years of my life so far. They were good years.”
Best not to wish away my days. They seem to slip away and stack up behind fast enough.
Don’t you wish you could be the age you are on the inside? You know, not the 40-year-old that has all the tell-tale signs of having lived each and every one of those 14609.7 days, but the inside age that still thinks she can run as fast as her fifteen-year-old without hurting the next day, the one that thinks she can jump on the trampoline, with her youngest, without feeling like her brain is banging around inside her skull, or the one that chooses not to be left behind at the river, when her big boys play, even if her feet aren’t as nimble and sure as they once were.
4O years…can you believe it? I can’t. I’m still trying it on for size.