So it is here. Forty.
A five-mile run. Yoga. Coffee brews while I shower. This is forty with no make-up, hair still wet, wrapped in a goofy bathrobe, as my three year-old dances naked to Of Monsters and Men.
The other day I listened to a coworker who is also forty tell someone that it was all downhill after thirty. Thirty. I thought she was joking, but apparently she was serious. “I’m old and you’re old, too,” she said. I laughed in that you’ve-got-to-be-fucking-kidding-me way. I told her that my thirties were far better than my twenties, and I anticipated my forties to be just as fantastic. I said that I felt sorry for her if she honestly believed it was all downhill because she has decades left on this earth.
However, she lives like she is old. She’s my friend and coworker and I love her, but her light is gone. Once she started believing life was over for her, it was over. She placed the limitation on herself.
Forget that. This is forty riding on a kiddie barrel train because her daughter insisted.
This is forty on Sedona trails.
Showing my girl the joys of hiking.
Taking in these moments.
Living, because it’s not downhill by a long shot.
We are more than a number, yet so many people act as if the number is all that matters. It’s crazy. I’m not a number. I’m a woman. I’m a mom. I’m a human being who is constantly evolving.
I have so much more that I want to do. Increase my yoga practice. Complete a Spartan Race. (Tough Mudder was last year.) Travel. Finish writing the gawddamn novel. Be a terrific role model for my daughter. And I’d love to find a man with whom I can share my life because I have a lot of love to give.
I figure I’ve had four decades to warm up. Now it’s game time.