I’ll take a 40 . . .

So next Tuesday, I turn FORTY. The big 4-ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh. No big whoop. Doesn’t really bother me. But you cannot get away from the milestone nature of it all. After all, 40 is the only birthday that has black napkins. Earlier than forty? No one gets it. Later than forty? HEY! TOO CLOSE TO HOME!

So forty it is. Another decade – done.

When you hit 10, it’s like, “How many more years until I am a teenager?”

When you hit 20, it’s like, “Finally! Only one more year until . . . you know . . .”

When you hit 30, it’s like, “Thank all that is holy that the twenties are over! Bring on the mellow!”

But when you hit 40 . . . . . We have crested the hill and it’s one log slog towards the bright light.

I don’t really feel that way. But it’s what you’re “supposed” to feel like so I offer my "homage".

First of all, the first twenty years don’t count – you’re a kid and then you are a teen and then you are a college student.

The next ten years don’t count because you spend all your time unwinding the nonsense you were taught in your first 20.

I think life begins at 30. Real. Life. It occurs between 30 and 80 – which makes middle age 55. I am calendaring my crisis on my google calendar as I speak . . . err . . . type.

So 40. Big whoop. To me it’s on par with ten. When you are ten, it is all about becoming a teenager. When you are 40, it’s all about becoming fiscally solvent. Pretty much equal on the angst scale, I think . . . .

Only now you have kids . . . . wondering how long before they turn 10 . . . .