Nearly four months in, I don't even need a full hand to count the number of positive things I have to say about being forty. I still hate the very thought of it.
I hate the fine lines on my face that somehow appear more noticeable since my birthday.
I hate the white strands of hair that seem to be spreading all too quickly now. It might not be so bad if they at least attempted to blend in, but the obnoxious little shits have a mind of their own, sticking straight up and out like the bristles of a wire brush.
I hate that I've recently noticed a few small spider veins developing in my legs.
I hate that I consciously pay attention to ads for things like leaky bladder medicine because my over-the-hill body might break at any minute and leave me Tena-twisting all over the place.
I hate terms like 'middle age', 'seasoned', and 'mature'. And, so help me, I will slap the next person who says, "Forty is the new twenty."
No, it isn't. It's nowhere even remotely close to twenty. In fact, it's twenty away from twenty. In no other case would anyone even consider those numbers as equals. Next time you're out shopping, find an item priced at $40 and offer the cashier $20. See how that goes.
But if there is one gem I've discovered about this whole over-forty racket, it's the fact that I truly care less what other people think of me. I spent the majority of my life being self-conscious about, well, everything. I'm sad to say I missed out on a lot of things I may have loved if I just had the courage to take a chance without worrying what others would think.
I'm not sure if it's a "with age, comes wisdom" type of thing, or if it simply took me this long to get over my insecurities. Maybe I'm truly a slow learner in the life-lesson department. At any rate, I've found a whole new type of freedom with this revelation and it's led to mornings like this one:
The sound of the rain pelting the air conditioner woke me from a dead sleep. I barely poured a cup of coffee when Punky stumbled out of her room, no doubt also awakened by the downpour passing through the neighborhood.
We chatted a bit while she ate her cereal and I told her we were likely to be stuck in the house most of the day. The weather forecast called for rain, rain, and more rain. Blah.
"Can we go outside and play in the rain?" Her eyes lit up just asking the question.
"Oh honey, I don't know if that's a good idea." I mumbled.
"You said we could sometime." Her matter-of-fact tone isn't so cute when she's right.
"I know, Punky, but it really has to be a nice, warm day with a nice, warm rain, and no thunder or whipping wind."
"I don't hear any thunder, Mommy."
"I haven't either but it's a really heavy rain. And I doubt it's very warm. And it's only 8:15 in the morning. And Mommy really doesn't feel like getting soaked right now. Maybe later in the day if it warms up. Besides, I just poured a cup of coffee." I was seriously fighting the urge to crawl back under the covers for a few more hours.
Just then Punky's dad came in from playing outside in the shed, or whatever it is he does for hours in that tiny shack of tools, grease, and broken stuff.
"Boy, that's really a warm rain this morning. Now they're saying it should be over by noon and we will see some sunny skies after all today." He bent down to kiss Punky's head without realizing he just sealed my fate.
"Daddy said it's warm, Mommy! And it's not going to rain later! Please, Mommy! Please, please, please can we play in the rain?" she hopped of the stool and bounced around the kitchen.
I admitted defeat with a long sigh as I shot a sarcastic thank-you look to her dad.
"Yes, Punky, yes. Finish your breakfast and we'll play in the rain."
So, we kicked off our Sunday by running up and down the street in a total downpour, jumping and splashing in every puddle we found, giggling hysterically, and dancing in the rain like no one was watching. No doubt the neighbors think I'm a lunatic (did I mention we were still in our pajamas?) but to my four year old I'm clearly the coolest mom ever. And that's worth every drop of mud and water I had to clean off the kitchen floor once we finally came inside to hit the showers.
