I abhor the whole concept of celebrity writers. What do I care about the life of Hollywood movie star X or talk show host Y? Heck, they don’t even write their own books. They get people to do it for them.
To my shock, horror, and utter disdain, I resorted to reading a celebrity book this summer. I needed something light and funny to read after an exhausting two months of work.
Tina Fey’s Bossypants was my first ever celebrity book. I’m not here to review it. But I do want to refer to one chapter she wrote composed of three simple sentences:
What Turning Forty Means to Me
I need to take my pants off as soon as I get home. I didn’t use to have to do that. But now I do.
I have been laughing for the past month over that chapter. I can absolutely relate.
I’ve decided to put together my own What Turning Forty Means to Me list. Men and women out there: feel free to add to my list in the comments section!
What Turning Forty Means to Me:
- Body odors. New and disturbing body odors in places there were no odors before.
- I can distinctly remember watching movies in my 20s and 30s where the 40/50 year old woman looks in the mirror and feels her face and neck, disapproving skin changes she seems to be discovering. I’d always shake my head, frustratingly click my tongue, and think, “What is wrong with this woman? Did she not realize she’d get old one day? Did she not know that with age come certain changes?” After forty, I look in the mirror and I’m completely shocked by the person who looks back at me. Who is that old woman in the mirror, I ask? Why is her face falling off her skull? Why is she melting like that?? Why did no one warn me this would happen??
- What’s the deal with the nails? Why do they become all ridgy (from the noun ridges) and stuff?
- It’s perfectly all right to fart out loud in front of one’s children. Holding in those nasty gases is unhealthy.
- I need much more space to sleep in. I sprawl now. A queen-sized bed barely provides enough space.
- I’m hot then I’m cold, I’m cold then I’m hot…
- I’m making friends with my PMS (pre-menstrual syndrome). I’ve come to accept it and enjoy its company. It entertains me. Can’t say that for the rest of the world, though. Last month’s PMS resulted in me publicly yelling the following at a good friend, “Don’t you DARE sit next to me. You were a HORRIBLE diving buddy during that last dive!” He wasn’t even my buddy during that last dive. He was someone else’s.
- Don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me. I can’t stand the human voice. (Why does no one talk to me?)
- Joking inappropriately with the children is perfectly all right. Two days ago we were walking through the mall and I noticed a lingerie shop showcasing a black bra and panties with red tassels on them. “I should buy a black bra and panties with red tassels on them,” I tell my 12, 13, and 17 year old children. Twelve year old son, “You are NOT going to buy that, Mama.” “Oh yes I am,” I dare him. “Oh yes I am!”
- Where did I put my glasses? KIDS! I NEED YOU TO LOOK FOR MY GLASSES AGAIN!
- Why can I never hear the television at the same volume that my kids can?
- Looking at gorgeous, thin, firm, confident 20 year old women and thinking, “That won’t last for long. SUCKER!”
- Hair is starting to appear in odd places and to disappear from other normal places.
- I’ll climb a mountain. But don’t ask me to bend down and get something from under the bed. My back and knees hurt too much.
- During the 1992 Cairo earthquake, I refused to leave a shaking apartment because none of my clothes were ironed. My current motto: No one’s looking at you. Just throw on any ol’ thing.
- I’m still figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.
Now it’s your turn! What does it mean to you to be forty?