Turning 42 aka My Flying Squirrel Neck.

You'll understand. Keep reading.

       Two years ago I wrote an article regarding turning 40. I was against it, stomping my foot at it and giving it the whole Gandalf-you-shall-not-pass treatment. But, after looking at my over forty pals, as well as my inability to find a time-machine with Amazon Prime shipping convenience, I let it happen. And, as I was assured by others, I found it to be true that turning forty is a whole lot harder than being forty. Or, as I am now, 42.

There’s something quite liberating about the fourth decade. It’s the one when the organ responsible for caring what others think starts to decay. Not to say you become rude to others, you just become kinder to yourself. You don’t worry about what folks expect of you so much. You embrace what you do well and don’t kvetch over what you don’t. Trivial drama becomes more tiresome and you find yourself drawing closer to folks that feel the same. And, for the most part, every expenditure of your energy is considered, no matter how small, and, whenever possible, more reasonably appropriated to activities and thoughts that fill you up rather than suck you dry. 

I’m not saying that life becomes easier after forty. In some ways, it’s tougher. Your parents and children begin reaching an age that requires more of your attention and your wallet. Retirement looms in the distance and job security becomes important in a way that it wasn't before. However, the blessings of age will help you handle those tough situations better. You’ll see things clearer, have more perspective and wisdom. You’ll be the you you couldn’t be until now and that's pretty great. Sure, sometimes gray roots will shine from your head like light is trying to escape from your skull. And, sometimes you’ll have hot flashes and pimples at the same time. And, sometimes, you’ll forget that Western Day is tomorrow and send your kid to school in full get-up today. Also, if you ever have the misfortune of looking down into a mirror, you will see your entire face slide forward. Don’t even get me started on what your neck does.

You know what, I will get started. What the heck, neck! You’re like a tube sock worn past its prime. One false move and I fear you’ll fall down into a fleshy pile on my collar bones like one of those infinity scarves from Coldwater Creek. Yes, I said Coldwater Creek. And, I regret it. It’s a great store but the demographic of shoppers is, well, let’s just say the last time I walked in there, I was the only one who couldn’t say where she was when Kennedy was shot. I wish I had said something younger and hipper like The Gap. But, I didn’t. So, thanks, neck. Not only have you starting giving up, you’ve pushed me out of the Coldwater Creek closet. 

By the way, don’t even try saying you are still firm, neck. Yeah, you haven’t fallen completely, you’re not horrible when I look at you straight on. But, I see what you’re doing. I see it. I turn my head and catch a glimpse of you in the mirror. Your miserable effort to hang onto the bottom of my chin looks like that flap of skin on the side of a flying squirrel (See attached image but take away cuteness). Well, I’m not a flying squirrel, neck. Ok? I have no plans to glide from the top of my stairs to the bottom. Although, that would be super cool, I’ll admit. If I could do that, I’d do it all the time. But, I would still resent you for it. And, if by chance you are just sitting up there giggling, thinking you are off my radar, jowls, you’re not. Ok? I’m onto you too. I see your subtle slip into hound dog mode. 

But, I digress. (hot flash) Flying rodents and hunting dogs aside, don’t fear the fourth decade. It’s worth every year it took to get you there. Own it. Don’t desperately cling to your youth. It will just keep you from from being able to reach for something else and waste energy you could be using to do, well, anything else. You’ll still be young, younger in a way you haven’t been yet because you’ll have a greater appreciation of youth. Just trust me on that one. And, when the challenging moments hit, the ones when everyone seems younger than you (you’ll probably be trying on jeans at Old Navy when it happens) just remember: when the zombies come, none of those whipper snappers will survive because they’ll all be trying to text while they run. Have you seen this? So help me, anyone born after ’82 is forever on their phone. Even while walking and running. Well, that’s gonna bite them in their pert backsides. Literally. Then, they’ll be zombies. Meanwhile, the rest of us will gracefully glide away, the wind catching us under our flying squirrel chin flaps, and we shall take refuge with all the other survivors and thrive in comfortable clothing…at Coldwater Creek.