Faking and Fearing Fabulous Forty

For over a year, I’ve been lamenting, bitching, joking and pondering over the fact that I turn 40 at the end of January.  Many people I know, including my husband B, already faced their fourth decade without fear or frustration, maybe even fanfare.  It’s only another birthday, and, hey, I’m fabulous and 40! Why can’t I embrace life and celebrate how much I’ve accomplished and the memories I’ve made in the past 40 years?

All year, while I grumbled that my 30s are over, I’ve secretly feared what they will bring.  Of course, with aging comes health concerns, but my tainted view of the fourth decade distracts me from enjoying what is now.  I’m relatively healthy with a few minor quirks, am married for almost 12 years to my wonderful husband and treasure my daughter E and son J.  After a too-long hiatus, I started writing again which brings me creative satisfaction and hope.  Slowly but surely, we are improving the interior of our home, whether we move or not.  And I’m lucky enough to enjoy the support and amity my friendships bring.  But instead of contentment, an underlying feeling of dread slithers up and grasps me with icy fingers.  It’s as fleeting and tenuous as a child’s nightmare – I can shake the fingers away, but they’ll creep up on me when I least expect it.

I’m very familiar with my primary reasons of dread and wish I could shed them.  Each of my parents developed cancer during their 40s – my mom survived breast cancer twice; my dad died from pancreatic cancer shortly after his 50^th birthday.  In between the time my mom dealt with her illnesses, she lost her husband.  I’m sure these factors also contribute to my hypochondria and add extra anxiety to my already nervous nature.

However, can I fake the fabulosity I’m supposed to feel at forty? Does that mean wearing a cleavage-baring dress on that day with stiletto heels and downing forty shots? Does it mean I should trade in my small SUV that endured a tree nearly crushing it and wipe out our bank accounts for a convertible sports car? Do I dump my nuclear family and fly out to Fiji, lounge in a grass hut and pretend I’m 30? Do I have to run wild with the wolves to prove I’m 40 and loving it? Or repeat an “I’m OK – You’re OK” mantra in my head that tells me that it’s just a number and to move along, nothing to see here, but a middle-aged woman dreading her milestone birthday?

The day after Christmas I went to the mall to shop, and B pointed out that Hallmark was having a sale on Vera Bradley bags.  My sister L planned to buy me one, but we decided last-minute not to exchange gifts and focus on the kids instead.  As I searched for a pretty pattern and size I desired, I heard a teenage girl shout out, “I love Vera Bradley bags! They’re so cute!”   If she was being sarcastic, I wanted to leap out of the store, having chosen the Plum Petals print, and defensively retort, “Hey, I’m allowed to carry and like Vera Bradley bags! I’m almost 40 and a mom!!!”

Then I heard news this month that a former neighbor was killed suddenly which quickly sobered up me and my self-absorbed thoughts.  It was shocking and unexpected – I hadn’t thought about her in ages.  I barely knew her really, but it seemed so selfish of me to worry about living and experiencing another year of life when she would never see her 40^th.

How dare I complain about a silly number that means nothing? Who cared if I was aging? Why should I fear a decade that offers so much?  I don’t have to worry about certain pretensions that a teenager may face, and thank God for that!  Instead of focusing on the negatives like cancer and death, I should focus on the positives that this decade offers and joyfully living the life I have.  I’m me, I’m alive and kicking, and I still have so many plans for my future.  And the first order of business in celebrating is to order a Death by Chocolate cake I forgot to order last year, savoring every last bite and faking fabulosity, not fearing it. As they say, fake it till you make it.