40oz. to Freedom

One year and a handful of days ago I turned 40-years-old.

It was around that time when I initially started working on this blog under the assumption I knew something, anything, about middle age. As it turns out, I knew (and possibly still know) very little about this next phase of life.

Forty threw quite a few unexpected, interesting, and, at times, cliche curveballs at me. I went from thinking I knew what I could expect to finding acceptance in uncertainty. I also went from waking up at 39 feeling great to waking up at 40 with back pain for the better part of three days because I got out of bed too quickly.

Before turning 40, a great deal of women indicated to me that this time in their lives was “transformative.” I now wholeheartedly agree and understand why these same women chose that word instead of “amazing” or “incredible” because 40 isn’t always that great. It can, however, be quite enlightening, and for that I’m truly thankful. Because, to both literally and figuratively echo the lyrics in the title track of this blog, “God knows, I’m not going back.”

What follows are several mid-life topics that include my thoughts from just a year ago along with how I feel about them now, a year and some change later. Enjoy.

40-year-old Me

41-year-old Me

Mentality

What I wrote a year ago:

As women, we are all born with two things: a neverending to-do list and guilt. Whether it’s picking up toys or washing dishes or finishing a craft or turning in an assignment or mowing the lawn or returning a phone call or paying the bills or changing the laundry or scheduling (then actually going to) an appointment, a woman’s running to-do list has not decreased in length since at least the age of 3. In fact, as I sit here, leisurely typing away, I have at least 20 things I should be doing instead. Fortunately by 40 I think women learn to deal with our lists much more effectively by allowing ourselves to simply not give a shit - or at least not as much of a shit as we did a few years ago.

But that guilt… Holy hell is it still palpable. Maybe not as conspicuous as when I was 25 and skipped that family thing because I was too hungover or when I was 32 and forgot to contribute to my preschooler's potluck, but it’s still apparent nonetheless. Just the other day I felt a twinge of guilt for not finishing a book before I went to bed. How is that even a thing? 

What I think today:

Holy shit, what a difference a year makes. While no, my to-do list isn’t any shorter than it was a year ago, I swear I can feel the layers of guilt that have enveloped me for the better part of my life slowly peeling away. At 41, if I don’t finish a book before bed you know what I do? Close my eyes and go the fuck to sleep. It’s truly become that simple.

With that said, I must admit my (ongoing) path to simplicity hasn’t really been that simple at all. Early on in my 40th year I recognized I needed help with a much bigger issue: anxiety. For a long time I thought it was normal to feel what I’ve always referred to as “nervous” 75 percent of the time. As it turns out, no, it is not. So in March of last year I talked to my physician who prescribed me with a very low dose of anxiety medication. Then, in May, I began seeing a therapist. And while my anxiety still needs work (and is something I’ll fill you dear readers in on in a separate post), that guilt is damn near nonexistent. It’s like I eliminated it from my internal list of things to worry about and now I don’t care if I spend a day binge-watching The Crown. Instead, I consider it something I must have needed to do that day and move on.

Physicality

What I wrote a year ago:

Googling any physical ailment as a 40-year-old woman solicits only one of two results: cancer or perimenopause. There is no in between. It’s also fairly common to hurt yourself doing absolutely nothing, which is baffling yet still happens with extraordinary regularity.

Although my weight has stayed the same for the last decade or so, the way I carry it has changed and it’s really starting to piss me off. I’m not uncomfortable in my skin, but the way gravity is pulling at it can be quite discouraging. With that said, this is my body and it’s been really good to me. I occasionally take ibuprofen, but other than that I’m in pretty good shape and free from multiple prescription medications. I thankfully don’t suffer from any serious ailments, so if my boobs and my belly hang a bit lower than I prefer and the lines in my forehead continue to deepen as the result of my perpetual ‘are-you-fucking-kidding-me-face,’ then I suppose I should count my blessings.

What I think today:

I still agree with most of this. However, in looking back, I am AMAZED by how quickly my body seemed to say ‘absolutely not’ the moment I turned 40. At least twice a month for the first seven months of my 40th year my body was ailed by SOMETHING. A headache. A cramp. Constipation. Neck pain. Worsening eyesight. A crown that needs replacing. Slight hearing loss in my right ear. Carpal tunnel. And the list goes on and on.

As a result, I’ve become a lot more aware of my body in the last year, and especially to what it’s telling me I need, like more sleep, longer walks, vegetables, and a vacation. I’ve also realized that the daily exercise I’ve been committed to for the better part of 20 years needed to change somewhat to accommodate the pieces of me that gravity has egregiously taken advantage of.

Identity

What I wrote a year ago:

I’m not sure how often you thought about your identity in your 20s or 30s, but I for one didn’t think about it much. In my 20s, I was broke but trying my hardest not to appear as such, wearing heels so high they (nearly) surpassed my ignorance. I was uninformed, arrogant, self-absorbed, and more concerned with how I was perceived than how I perceived myself. Honestly, looking back, being that oblivious was kind of glorious.

In my 30s, and especially in my early 30s, I was a new mom without any personal identity whatsoever. Still fairly broke and VERY tired, I still somehow managed to look put together but something inside me shifted and I began to question, care, inquire, and wonder: who am I and who did I want to become? 

At 40, I’m pretty sure I know exactly who I am even if sometimes I don’t particularly care for it. Most days, I’m a combination of happy, confident, empathetic, loud, aware, detail-oriented, outspoken, funny, selfish, aggressive, anxious, frustrated, and disappointed. I’m also “sharp,” which is a word a colleague recently used to describe my assertive tone that wasn’t meant as a compliment but that I took as one nonetheless. 

I know what my interests are and what they are not. I’ve happily coupled my lifelong obsession with shoes with my somewhat new obsession for gardening. I also no longer expect myself to carry the load of every cause on my shoulders. Afterall, at 40, we can’t be expected to rage against ALL the machines. To fight for socialized medicine, sea turtles, safe drinking water, and women’s rights is just too much. At this point, we deserve to give ourselves a break, so I’ve decided to choose my motivation, stick to it, and let the lady down the street worry about overcrowding at the animal shelter or noise ordinances or whatever it is that matters to her.

What I think today:

I’m about to say something no colleague, past or present, has ever heard me say, let alone write: No edits. This is perfect.

Sociality

What I wrote a year ago:

By 40, a woman no longer has a ton of great friends. A lot of acquaintances and online pals, sure, but more than five, maybe six, real ride-or-die, true blue, ugly-cry worthy, no-need-to wear-a-bra-around, can-travel-with, and freely-yell-at-my-child-in-front-of besties are rare at this age.

I used to think that my making very few friends as an adult was an inadequacy. I now see it as an intentional strength. Friendships, at any age, are not to be taken lightly, but at 40, if I can’t see us outliving our partners, growing old together, and staying in a nice cottage by the lake with a big wraparound porch and a couple of dogs, I’m out.

What I think today:

While what I wrote a year ago is still true, there’s also something to be said about giving new folks a chance. Making and keeping new friends later in life is HARD. Perhaps giving acquaintances a glimpse into our quirks and idiosyncrasies and how we might look freely yelling at our children without wearing a bra is warranted at this stage in our lives. Maybe one of the reasons women don’t have “a ton” of great friends at 40 is because we’re too scared to show our insecurities and let our freak flags fly. I would personally like to let my freak flag fly a little bit higher as I age, and I have a feeling I might meet some new and dear friends who are attempting to do the exact same thing in the process.

Closing Thoughts

What I wrote then:

As women, we obviously wear a lot of hats and we try our best to do (and look) our best when we wear each one. I think it’s safe to say we most likely don’t and may never feel good enough – as people, mothers, partners, friends, daughters, employees, etc. – but I assure you, as I look at myself and at all the magnificent women around me, I think we’re all doing a damn good job. I personally give myself a solid 70 percent rating in everything I do, which I see as pretty fantastic especially when you consider most men maintain a mediocre 45 percent for most of their lives and they seem to have much higher self esteem.

What I think today:

I now give myself an 80 percent rating because why the hell not? I’m putting in work, and although it’s not the stuff of 20-something ignorance, it’s pretty damn close to bliss so long as I remember to get out of bed ever-so-slowly each morning.

P.S. If you got this far, the 40-year-old picture of me is actually me at 5. Bangs for life.

Title Track: “40oz. To Freedom,” Sublime. Listen here.