I guess it’s time to come to some realizations about my life. Isn’t that what forty-year-old people do? They come to realizations. At thirty-nine, I could still live my life without even using such a word… at forty I’ll probably use words like that all the time.
To tell you the truth, I’m a little afraid to go to sleep tonight. I mean, I’ve always wondered how “old” people get to be who they are and how it is they come to love the stuff they love.
Whenever I see a little old lady with puffy blue hair and bright pink lips dressed in turquoise polyester pants with panty hose and little while tennis shoes… I’ve always wondered when that happened. At what point did she decide blue hair was the way to go? Was it when she turned forty???
So, if I go to sleep tonight still loving my bleach-blonde hair will I wake up tomorrow with an overwhelming urge to have Vonda (my hair goddess) dye it the shade of an old Easter egg???
Will I get up in the morning and rush to the nearest grocery store to buy some of those little $5.00 white tennis shoes? (Which is apparently the only place that sells such things. Haven’t you always wondered who buys shoes in the grocery store? Apparently it’s forty-year-old women.)
Will I type “polyester pants manufacturer” in the Google search engine tomorrow? Will I even remember what Google means?
And I guess that while I’m out shopping for sweaters with stitched kitty cats all over them, some of that realization I was talking about earlier will hit me between the eyes.
I’ll finally realize that I will never be a doo-wop girl for AC/DC. I’ll never be swept off my feet by Jon Bon Jovi and I will never again wear a black ‘pleather’ bikini (unless it’s in the before picture of my Extreme Makeover).
Maybe I’ll also realize I’ve learned a lot in these forty years of crazy. At forty I know that it’s ok to be happy, while at twenty I was pretty sure I was put on this earth to be a dramatic, tortured soul.
At forty I understand that being a woman is more about what you have to contribute than it is about what you have to sacrifice. And that beauty is really a reflection of who you are rather than how much black eye liner you wear.
Ok. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe I won’t wake up craving prunes and Lucky Strikes.
I think I’ll stay awake all night though… just in case.