My birthday is coming up next month and I will turn 41. FORTY. ONE. It's not like it's that high of a number, but if I was a celebrity this is about the time I would have to start considering dog food commercials instead of movie deals just to pay the rent. So, you can imagine how relieved I am not to be famous. It goes to show, really, that being mediocre in all things is a pretty good gig. This way if someone called me up to do a dog food commercial I'd jump on my blog and be like, "YOU GUYS! Watch Channel 9 and look for the ad with the backlit, middle-aged woman in the meadow getting mauled by a golden retriever - THAT'S ME!!" This way it's a celebration instead of a walk of shame, and at the end of the day I get to come home and sleep with an accountant who golfs on Fridays and be totally happy with that.
I'll tell you what else I can be happy about when it comes to getting older is that I'm discovering how many strong opinions I have, and how I care less and less about whether people like them or not. I think this is why old people have a reputation for being so crotchety, because they don't give a flying fig (digression: I have no idea where the phrase "flying fig" originated, but if I had to guess I'd probably say a rest home food fight is a decent possibility) what you think. They don't care if you're their friend as long as you bring them their pudding on time and keep their TV on "All My Children". It's where I'm headed, I can feel it.
A few days ago I ran into a skinny friend at the store who had just finished a marathon over the weekend in THREE HOURS. I asked her about it and was all prepared to congratulate and pat her on the back and say all kinds of nice things when she began to lament her time. But that's not even the point where I got mad, because I understand the difference between myself and an elite runner. (Elite runner: "I didn't average a 5 minute mile" Me: "I got to the finish line before they turned off the lights!") It was when she launched into her dissertation about being fat that I completely lost my mind. This girl needs to lose weight the way Carson Kressley needs to shed a little of his masculinity. I looked her in the eye, smiled, and said, "I'm sorry, this conversation is officially over", and walked away. Cory's worried that I was too rude, but I'm at a point in my life where I refuse to tolerate that kind of utter nonsense. I mean, if you were standing in a store talking to Martha Stewart and she said, "If I could just get a little more creative".... See what I mean?
AND ANOTHER THING.
I'm also starting to get grouchy already about winter waiting for me just around the corner. Because around here, "Winter" should be spelled "WINDter". Wind in the summer can be kinda nice, but wind in the winter is like nature's way of saying, "I've never liked you very much." Seriously, it gets so blustery around here that Chicago starts calling to see how I'm holding up. I'm not ready. One time last year when I was running around the neighborhood it was so cold and windy that I stopped dead in my tracks, raised my fists into the air and yelled, "STOOOOP IIIT!!!" It yelled back at me, froze my snot and told me to run wee wee wee all the way home if I was going to be such a baby about it. The wind - it mocks me. As do the neighbors who may have witnessed this event.
So yes, soon I won't just be 40, I'll be "in my forties". I've decided to celebrate by complaining without apology all year long. Cory is super excited. (p.s. Buy me something really nice.)