“When did you get to be so old?” was my mother-in-law’s question when I reminded her what my age would be this year. I am, after all, the child bride of her second-to-youngest son, replete with fresh young preschool-aged child. I’m not supposed to be pushing this kind of zero. But I am.
Today begins my staring contest with 40. I’m in the company of a number of my favorite bloggers, which I find oddly comforting in a 21st-century way.
A friend of mine, who just turned 40, told me she had the most trouble with the fact she was leaving her 30s. I’ve loved my 30s too. There’s been some hard personal stuff and way too much bad government, but they beat my 20s with an ugly stick. I plan to soak up this last year as much as I can, while keeping a close eye on the women I know in their 40s, 50s, 60s (and 80s!) who make those places look like such fabulous destinations.
And as my mom reminded me this morning, 39 is the age that Jack Benny liked so much, he stayed there for 41 years.
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