Ah, 40. I certainly felt like I was already there long before my actual birthday rolled around. The moment I hit 36, the milestone loomed ahead like a car approaching from the opposite lane in a dream. There’s a strange calmness in that dream-state—you know you’re going to collide, but somehow, you believe it’ll be just fine.
I once worked alongside a woman named Linda who used her age as a license to do whatever she pleased. “I’m having a cocktail before noon—I’m 40, for goodness’ sake!” she’d declare. “I told the boss where to stick it—I’m 40, after all!” “I can wear my pajamas to work! I’m 40, for crying out loud!” I admired her carefree attitude; meanwhile, I was still clinging to my thirties, viewing 40 as the gateway to “old.”
Unlike the excitement of turning 30, reaching 40 felt daunting. In your twenties, people constantly remind you how young you are, making you yearn for the respect that comes with a three in front of your age. But 40 is undeniably adulthood. Closer to 50 than to 20, it’s a point where society expects you to have it all figured out. At that time, I was single, with no kids, jokingly lamenting, “I thought I’d be done with my first marriage by 40!” My friends chuckled, but I could sense their pity as they retreated to their SUVs, whispering about how I’d be living alone, dining on canned tuna with a plastic fork.
I held onto 39 like it was a life preserver. I binge-watched the series thirtysomething, recalling how ancient the characters seemed back when I recorded it on VHS at age 13. Each episode brought the nagging reminder, “You’re older than that person, and that one too.” I even tried on the label of “middle-aged.” “Now that I’m middle-aged,” I’d start, but it never felt right. I still felt like I was in my thirties, maybe even 12.
Turning 40 was a mixed bag. I had a fabulous party with friends who’d celebrated the big 4-0 just months before. Still, I felt as if that oncoming car had hit me—not fatally, but enough to leave me dazed for days, pondering why I hadn’t achieved anything noteworthy yet. Why was I squeezing into jeans that hadn’t fit since my twenties? Why didn’t I own a home?
But then, the famed “I don’t care” mentality that people promised would come with 40 kicked in, and it was liberating. Why was I still worried about others’ opinions? I’m 40! Not everyone has to like me! Why did I insist on softening my voice to seem less intimidating? At 40, I realized I could speak in my actual voice to the customer service rep! And why waste time with people I didn’t enjoy? Life is too short; I don’t want to spend it with boring or negative folks. If I’m fretting about being old now, imagine the years of worrying ahead.
I’m 40, and while I may not feel old, I know that one day I will be. There’s still so much living to do! As Joseph Brodsky beautifully captured in his birthday poem, “Now I am forty. What should I say about my life? That it’s long and abhors transparence…Yet until brown clay has been rammed down my larynx, only gratitude will be gushing from it.” That’s the essence of it—gratitude. Thankful for the years I’ve experienced and all the adventures yet to come. So here’s to being 40. Thank you!
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Summary
Turning 40 can feel overwhelming, but it also brings a refreshing sense of empowerment and gratitude for the past and future. As we embrace this milestone, we find ourselves shedding insecurities and focusing on what truly matters—living life to the fullest.