turning 40

Brief Thoughts on Game of Thrones, Hairy Knees, and

I’ve had a week of being 40, and…whatever. I’m over it. I’m more interested now in WTF happened in “Game of Thrones” and why, why, WHY when I shave my legs and get them all silky smooth do I always forget to shave my knees? Seriously. My knees are like the Sasquatch Bermuda Triangle. I don’t even know what that means, exactly, except that it’s bad. And I need to wear longer dresses.

Luckily, Kealoha just ignores my knees entirely. For a while, when he’d touch my leg, I thought he just had a thing against knees. They’re angular, not particular sexy, but then I looked down. He was just nice enough not to say anything about the crop circle growing on my knees. Now that’s LOVE.

This picture has nothing to do with my blog. It's just a dog in a coat. A DOG in a COAT.

Whatever.

I’m now officially old enough to have permanently crossed into Quirkyville. So, I leave cabinet doors open, I routinely ignore shaving my knees, I’m trying to eat healthy so this means I now have salads for breakfast, and after years and years of trying, I’m pretty sure I’m incapable of relaxing.

It’s all good. I’m okay with this. Plus, I’m too engrossed in gorging on “Game of Thrones” episodes to care about piddly things like my smoothness, or lack thereof. Priorities, right?

How 40 Starts

0601_window01 At 1AM last night, I woke up hearing Bruno Mars shouting through my window that he would do anything for me. ANYTHING at all for me. He’d jump out of a plane, step in front of a train, go insane in the membrane…

And then I heard my next door neighbor scream at the top of her lungs: “FUUUUUUCK YOUUUUUUUU! Don’t you even CARE? Who ARE you? Shut off the FUCKING MUSIC!!”

And then I giggled. Welcome to being 40, Tanya.

I then had a very strange dream where I was still living at my stepmom and dad’s house. It was totally decaying. Mold everywhere, water dripping, and I was sitting on the front porch waiting for something when the roof caved in. I watched it cave in and then I texted my dad and said “I’m moving out.” He texted back and said “It’s about time. Everyone else has been gone for years.”

If that little episode doesn’t sound symbolic, then you haven’t been in English class or had any therapy at all.

Then the dream switched and I was in the ocean trying to study new lifeforms. Whoever gave me this job clearly didn’t read my resume. I looked over the boat’s edge (I’m sure it has a technical term but I don’t know it) and there was this huge wall of water coming for us, ala The Perfect Storm. I said “Huh”. Then I saw a giant whale jump out of the ocean, twist, flip, and do a giant cannon ball and I said “Look at the giant WHHHHHAAAAALE!”

perfect-storm

Then I was showing my college roomates (Kim and Rachel, who I spent my thirtieth birthday with getting ridiculously drunk) this dingy Chinese restaurant where I would eat lunch and try to pitch my stories to hungry Asian businessmen who didn’t speak English.

The dreaming ended when I bolted upright in bed and thought “Coffee” and then “What a fucked up night”.

I think I was too hot last night. Yes. On the night I turned forty, I’m pretty sure I was having a hot flash that caused mild hallucinations.

It sounds like it’s going to be an interesting decade if last night is how it’s all set up. And, also, now I want Dim Sum.

On Turning 40 And The Magical Powers Of A Mustache

I turn 40 in two weeks. I TURN. The way that milk sours, meat goes bad, and voluptuous crosses over to chubbyville. I’d say ‘insert whining here’ but I think you can tell from my opening that I’m already whining.

I’m also wearing comfortable cotton pajamas with a drawstring waist. It’s only a short distance until this outfit TURNS into a full-on muumuu.

Me, trying to get it on with Kealoha.

 

I don’t know why I’m mourning my youth so much…except maybe that now that I’m almost-forty I’m saying things things like “mourning my youth”. I also started a new diet, or ‘shift in eating habits’ where you replace the bottom rung of the food pyramid with fruits and vegetables instead of grains. It’s called the Eat to Live diet, but I think it should be called the Poop to Live diet.

40, high fiber diet and stretchy pants. Bring on the pole dancing, fellas! Mama wants to work it!!!

Er…

Wahhhh!

I’d actually start crying right now if it all weren’t a little bit funny.

It is a little bit funny because, to be honest, I acted almost-forty when I was twenty and thirty. I’ve been almost-forty ever since I was sixteen and a college guy asked if he could shake my hand and I said very primly “I’m not that kind of girl!”

What I need to do is shift my thinking. Like, I can be the hot-young-forty-year old mom in comparison to the moms who had kids late and are now in their fifties. I can watch reruns of Madmen to see how to rock a muumuu. I can make crab rangoons, narrate an audiobook about vampires and/or spiritual awakening, while taking care of my kids, hubby, and working on writing the next book.

And really, all this angst comes down to the same thing: I’m in between projects and I need some place to put my energy. Some place other than a mirror and a bottle of merlot.

As soon as I get out of these stretchy pajamas, I’ll start working on that.

 

Side note

While sitting here whining , my 8-year-old son just came in here wearing a mustache and gave me a kiss. He said that there’s nothing that a good mustache can’t fix. I find that wildly entertaining and deeply disconcerting at the same time.

And he’s right. I feel much better.