Me vs. the Big 4-0

So here I am, in the last two weeks of my 30s.

I'm all thrilled to pieces, of course, about the rapidly increasing approach of, as it is inevitably called, the BIG 4-0. Apparently it's some sort of big deal or something. I guess it's a good sign that people are shocked when they hear the number, the that must be a typo message on Facebook, the totally inappropriate comment from my direct report about going for me if he was a little older (he's British and can get away with that because of the posh accent) so long as I forget the fact that I've been divorced longer than he's been alive. And you know when you start thinking cynical thoughts like that or the fact that because of that brief marriage that, even if you are single and 40, no one can call you an old maid, that it is indeed bothering you.

But it's not the age thing. I'm quite sure the universe doesn't give a fig if I'm 39 or 41 and as an acknowledged late bloomer I should just be getting better. No, it's when you're not where you want to be that any birthday any rankle, any holiday can mock. It's not that I'm not looking forward to going home and celebrating with family and friends (what my pal Carrie has coined my "birthDerby") I am. I'm always optimistic about birthdays. I always think this will be the one. The one where I get my pony, where everyone I want is there regardless of distance or expense and the gifts-they totally rock. No, my fear is that, like most things when you are blue, it will seem muffled and fake which, as I think we can all agree, is no way to live.