Forever 39

“You know,” Stancey taunted me from the passenger’s side of the van, “you’re, like, halfway to being dead.”

This was just one of many uplifting comments I was hearing as I psyched myself for my inevitable fortieth birthday. 

I couldn’t even manage an unenthusiastic hahaha.  For whatever reason, this upcoming birthday was getting the better of me.  I didn’t want to be forty.  I just wanted to stay forever 39.

Reinforcing my need to stay thirty-something was my mom’s musings on my grandfather.  


He said life began at 40. 

Until he turned 40 anyway. 

After that, he never said it again.

What did my grandfather and the Mayans know about my fortieth year?  Was it all downhill?  And if it is, would I even notice?

While I reminded myself it could be worse, I couldn’t stop my rhinoceros self from lolling in a watering hole of self-pity.

My neurotic self reminded me that I could be battling a life-threatening illness. Not to mention my child, or my spouse, or...okay, stop.

My hypochondriac self nervously worried about the possibility of having any of the above happen. 

My pessimist self was hinting that I still hadn’t achieved success.

My psychotic self was screaming for more Zoloft.  

Or alcohol. 

Or if nothing else, a tube of Lamisil to remedy the thick, yellow toenail that was beginning to represent just how unremarkable I felt about myself the past 20 years or so. 

What was this birthday, if nothing else, but a big let down? 

So on my last day of being 39, I brooded as I nursed a glass of wine and soaked my yellowed toenail in a bowl of Listerine. 

And I thought…maybe a bit too much. 

Little has changed about me from age 21 until now--aside from trading wine coolers for wine. Nineteen years later, I was still celebrating my birthdays in the quiet comfort of my own environment, with a family I love, but for the most part, just alone.

Thankfully, I have a lot of funny people in my life that will indulge me for a little bit longer.  Or at least until the Mayan calendar runs itself out.

And if I decide to stay 39 for just one more year, then it is the gift I give to myself. After all, if it worked for Jack Benny, why not me?

(Thanks, Wes, for being such an awesome, Internet explorer!)