I hated turning 40.
I hated it.
When I was younger, forty sounded ancient to me. Everything about it sounded saggy and tired and falling backward into an existence where fun was no more. And the footwear would be horrible.
I didn’t make my peace with my age until I neared the end of my forties. I realized a few years before turning 50 that aging was not only not so bad, but that I was having more fun than I had in a long time. Maybe ever.
So, tomorrow is my birthday.
53.
HAHAHAHAFUUUUUUUUUCKINGHAHAHAHAH
I seriously have no idea how I got here. For all that is holy, I swear, all I did was blink a few times.
I don’t feel my age. I don’t feel like I’m closing in on 53 and growing older. The thought actually seems absurd to me.
It’s not like I haven’t changed in fairly dramatic ways throughout adulthood. I am so far away from who I was at age 23.
I like who I have become. I don’t feel like I’ve been moving away from myself, I feel like I’m coming back to myself.