Turning Forty

I turned forty in January. I’m unsure if reaching forty-years-of-age is considered a milestone, but it happened just the same. Over the years I’ve asked people who are older than I am, who’ve had fortieth, fiftieth birthdays and so on, if they felt significantly different as the years pressed on. A few admitted they felt every bit of their age while others said they felt as if they were still in their twenties, and are reminded of their true age only when they saw themselves in the mirror.

For me, my body and mind are tiring—mostly my body. I feel much older than my forty years. I have good days and not-so-good days. I could always do more in the way of diet and exercise, but I don’t. Beyond my physical fatigue, the ageing process has handed me a new set of bright, shiny tools, or maybe it has allowed me to sharpen my old tools and use them more efficiently. I am calmer, more relaxed. I see the bigger picture for what it is—of not taking life so seriously. Absolutely there will be times to be serious and attentive, but even then I don’t allow those times to subjugate me, crush my spirit or manufacture ill feelings. Take life as it comes, is what I say. Everything will be okay in the morning.

So, the day I turned forty wasn’t a depressing day—as it was when I turned thirty—even with my aches, pains, and sometimes fogged forty-year-old mind. It might sound strange, but I feel I’ve finally matured, at least in the sense of years on earth. So, to those who turned forty or are about to, I raise my glass to you and say here is to forty more.