I celebrated my 38th birthday last Saturday.
Woo-hoo me. I bought myself a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans from the Hudson's Bay Co. in Banff - and ONLY because they were a) long enough for my 35" inseam and b) because they were on sale for $55 - which I felt was reasonable for denim (given that the price tag originally said $109).
I received loving phone calls from my kids - and from three lovely friends that I adore... wishing me happy birthday and joyous moments for the new year and I relished the wonderful way being loved by my friends made me feel.
Then I came home - back to planet reality - and discovered a few things about my adult birthday years.
For example: One might consider the fact that I quite possibly have used up half of my life. Maybe more. 38 x 2 = 76. It is entirely possible that I will live to be 76. Maybe even 86.
So - I get back to my office Monday after time away with the man of my dreams (my husband) - start returning phone calls and emails to clients saying: "Sorry for the delay in getting back to you, I was away for a few days celebrating my birthday. Ya-da, ya-da, ya-da...'
One of my clients/acquaintances/friends (male) shoots me back an email that says - 'Your birthday?! 40 Bones or 45??'
Now obviously, he hasn't had lessons in the art of conversation with women. Especially women over 35. Either that or he is a horrible judge of age. Or he was out to tease me - which could be, too. (We'll see who's the jokester - next time he leaves the room when we're visiting I am going to spit in his coffee.)
Why was I insulted? Slightly. And I was shocked. Do I really look over forty?
Forty five???
More importantly - why do I think that there is something wrong with being over forty? - my sister Jenna, Alyson and Darlene are all over forty and I think they rock. My husband is 44 and he's totally hot. He's got great skin and I love the salt and pepper in his hair...
WHY do women feel such pressure and disdain for aging?
Seriously - that one comment has me considering chemical peels and shock therapy on the muscles in my face.
Or maybe it's my hair. Short and fuddy duddy.
I try to think 'who gives a shit?' but I give a shit. I refuse to think that getting older means the prime of my life has passed. I think I look better now that I did at 24. (Yeesh - if you saw photos of me then, you'd agree)
I want to be 48 thinking I am MORE fabulous than I was a 38. However in the meantime, I don't want someone to think I am 45 when I am only 38.
I'm fighting the urge to run out and buy tooth whitener, anti-aging cream and crank dance music on the CD player in my mini-van while wearing low rise skinny jeans and layering my tank tops.
I will be okay. 38 isn't dead.
Yet.