It’s staying too busy to even care.
Yes, my fortieth birthday is on Wednesday. Several months ago, I booked a six-day trip for me and Andrew to celebrate in Montreal and Quebec City. So it is a bit of a big deal in my mind. But what I haven’t been doing is dwelling on disappointments and triumphs, analyzing the person I’ve become at this point in my life, or scrutinizing the existence of a middle-age paunch. It’s not that I’m against that type of self-reflection; I just haven’t had time to indulge in it. And I think I’m better off this way.
I’m too busy learning the complex ropes at my new job. I’m cleaning and housekeeping (Andrew pitches in but let’s face it, I’m infinitely more fastidious). I’m doing last-minute preparation and packing for our trip up north. That’s enough to keep my brain constantly humming and squashing any age-related stress. No, I didn’t get asked to pose naked on the cover of Playboy like Kate Moss (she turns forty in January). And I’m now too old to make Fortune’s “40 Under 40” (as if age were the only factor keeping my name off the list!). It’s all good because I’m doing the best I can.
Of course, I do have some aspirations for the future: to be more patient, generous, and compassionate; to write more often; to keep traveling to new places; to never stop learning.
So you could say that I’m not only turning forty, I’m leaning into fifty!
One last thing—in case you’re wondering, no, running does not give me a chance to be pensive. I’m way too preoccupied with hauling my 40-year-old butt up this hill: