In less than a month I will turn forty. I love birthdays, love celebrating birthdays, and for the most part, I’ve never been bothered about getting older. 

Recently, while having coffee with a friend and her dog, a family walked by and the kids asked if they could pet the dog. We said yes and they proceeded to pet him and chatter to us. “I’M FIVE!” shouted the little boy, holding up all fingers on one hand to illustrate. I smiled and replied, “I’m forty!” Suddenly, calling myself forty made me feel, well, strange. 

My twenties were fine, full of a lot of learning experiences, including quitting college to follow a boy to the Caribbean, buying a home at the top of the market, right before the bottom fell away, and a short-lived, ill-fated marriage. With a bit of serendipity, I got out of the house (at a huge loss but ce la vie) and my divorce was finalized a month before I turned thirty which meant I started my thirties as a whole different person. And my thirties have been great, I really felt like I became the person I was supposed to be and I checked off a bunch of milestones too – I found a career I liked, was good at, and started getting paid well for doing it. I bought a condo and when I sold it five years later, it wasn’t at a loss. I started taking my writing seriously and published two chapbooks and applied to an MFA program. I traveled to places I’d always dreamed of visiting. I found a partner and we married. We bought a house and two cars. I’m in a great book club, I have a great group of friends. In short, my thirties have turned me into a bonafide adult. So if my thirties have been so great, why do I feel so strange about entering my forties?

I think it’s because turning forty doesn’t just mean that I’m aging, it means  everyone else is too. My father has been given two years to live and while the doctors don’t know how much time my dad actually has left they know for certain his time is limited. My mother-in-law is not doing well and we’re in the process of moving her into assisted living. At forty I realize retirement isn’t that far away thing I don’t need to worry about. I can’t run as fast or as far as I did in my early thirties. I go to bed early. I drink better wine and beer but not as much because hangovers hurt and I long ago stopped drinking to get drunk. And while some of these changes are hard to accept, I’m okay with them. So why do I feel so strange about turning forty?

I think it’s because my thirties were really great. I was not someone who enjoyed high school – no, I was too skinny and awkward and I hated the town I lived in, the state I lived in — I  just wanted to get out. And I did. So I don’t look back on my high school years as particularly great years. And while I did and learned a lot in my twenties, it’s also not a time I’d want to repeat. But my thirties…well, there were definitely lessons and trying times but overall, the decade I spent in my thirties was pretty damn awesome. And so I think the reason I feel so strange about turning forty is because I don’t know what to expect from my forties. I want them to be “good”, whatever the hell that means. I want to keep doing and seeking and learning and growing and writing and exploring and, and, and.

And so I’m spending the next couple of weeks thinking about what I want from the next decade of my life. I’m thinking about what my goals are for my forties and what I’m going to do to achieve them. Because I want to be excited about turning forty and everything it may entail.