And I finally turned forty.

Yesterday. Let me take myself to a corner and weep my heart out. No seriously, I hit forty. When I was 19, I had thought forty was a good age to die. You were still young enough to make a decent looking corpse and old enough to have done all the things you should have done by the time you hit forty.
Or so I thought. Obviously I didn’t think too deeply back then. Call it the arrogance of youth. Or whatever. But I hit official forty, four oh, four completed decades on this planet and I’m damned if I’m going to feel forty. I feel, in my head, like I ought to be asked for a valid id when I go to a pub. Of course, that would be pushing it a bit too much, but in my head that’s where I am, if I ignore the hulking seven year old telling me to act my age.
So what does turning forty feel like. No, the face hasn’t collapsed on me overnight into a maze of wrinkles. The knees haven’t given way yet. I still giggle over crushes, and go ballistic over trends I can barely fit my expansive self into. I read sappy Twilight series novels and get lost in a world of stalkerish vampire lovers, only to emerge and bang myself on the head wondering what was I smoking. I need to grow up. Turning forty hasn’t changed that.
So here’s what forty should be like. As clicked by the doting son yesterday. Sort of sums up my mood right now.

Am so going to make this my best decade ever. And yes, I need to change the header of the blog.