Being 40-something sucks. There’s just something about that age that’s neither here nor there: I’m no spring chicken, but anyone out of their ‘teens protests when I say I feel old. In the grand scheme of things, I’m not… and yet my brain can’t help recognizing that I’m no spring chicken anymore, either.
Not that my brain’s willing to accept that fact, mind you. It’s does a nice job of blanking out this fact: whenever I’m asked my age I start to answer, “Oh, I’m thirty-tw… uh… forty? Yeah, forty.” My brain doesn’t even acknowledge what my eyes attempt to make it recognize, either. When I look into the mirror I don’t see my face being any different from when I was in my early 30s. Then again, I don’t see much difference in my body from then, either… even though the scale and my clothing sizes tell a much, much different story.
But the truly annoying part of being 40-something: dealing simultaneously with both gray hair and pimples, oily skin and wrinkles, taking Midol for menstrual cramps and progesterone for hot flashes, while squirming into hip huggers and support hose. It’s a not-quite-here-nor-there age when adding Metamucil to Red Bull makes perfect sense.
My doctor tells me that I should enjoy this age, since “forty is the new thirty” and, besides, menopause is right around the corner. He says that latter part like it’s a bad thing, but to me it means an end to monthly cramps, breakouts and bloating and an eventual end to the annoying hot flashes that have me changing clothes more often than a teenage girl.
Besides, as soon as The Change hits I’ll be able to get away with wearing Mom Jeans again, which means no longer having to spend hours shopping for a blouse that hides my muffin top without making me look pregnant. It also means no one would ever glance at my stomach and ask “When are you due?” They’d know what they’re looking at is fat, just as I’ve known it for a couple of years now, too.