One month to forty. Not too concerned, and here’s why: I chose to forget to be thirty-nine.
Age mattered when I was fifteen, and for some reason, twenty-four into twenty-five. At fifteen, I ticked off the calendar days to Driving Day. Turning twenty-five felt like Failure Day, because I was between identities and knee-deep into adulthood.
Notice that turning twenty-one is missing from the milestone list? I didn’t even go out drinking. I had to work the next morning, and work was SO EARLY.
I have some wishes for my fortieth birthday:
I want my lawn to be nicely mown when I wake up.
I will wake up with good hair—bombshell hair.
My closets will be clean, and my laundry will be done.
The litter box will be as clean as it ever is, which is never, because she has to pee every time I clean the box, but we all have our quirks.
I’ll have lunch plans, with anyone I love. Maybe three or four of them, but I’ll be happy with one.
My baby girl will take a bike ride with me in the afternoon, if the weather is nice.
That’s pretty much it. I want to feel pretty, “together”, and see smiles on faces of my people. This is a simple formula for a good day, a good life. Smiles are at the top of the list, and having my life in order comes second.
Bombshell hair, well, that’s just a bonus.