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Madness

My 40s Are Kicking My Ass

Hi. Hey. Happy New Year and so forth. I really wish that I could’ve titled this piece something a little more genteel to suit you all’s fragile sensibilities, but that’s the plain truth: My 40s are kicking the crap outta me.

I actually began writing a similar piece about this time last year, but I was so shocked, so STUNNED by the changes in my body that I had to let the article sit in my drafts until I gathered the fortitude to talk about it. Turns out you need a full year to muster that many energy points. So here we are today!

Let me tell you what the 40s are like, since none of my l’il friends had the decency to warn me in my 30s. You know when Jacob was wrestling with the angel in the bible? (Genesis 32) Fought with that sucker all night. Fought with him until dawn. Fought so long that he walked away with a fractured hip. I believe that “angel” is actually Forty. Jacob fought with Forty so long and hard he forgot his own name.

Jacob: You can’t leave until you bless me, Forty!

Angel: Ok cool, Israel. Here’s your blessing * POOF *!

Jacob: Wait! My name isn’t Israel. It’s Jacob!

Angel: You sure about that?

Israel: Well…dag. Actually, I’m not. I guess you could be right. Maybe it is Israel?

Which is why I’ve been answering to all sorts of horrible variations of my name since 2018.

My sister turned 40 in November. She likened it to shopping at a brand new department store with a friendly concierge stationed at a glossy oak desk.

Stock image from some fancy place, not an actual 40s Concierge

Concierge: Hi! Welcome to Forty. Let’s get you settled in. Aches and Pains will be with you shortly. 

40-year-old dimwit: What—what am I doing here?

Concierge: Ah! Right on time. I see Memory Loss has already made its appearance.

40-year-old dimwit: Is it me, or is it REALLY hot in here?

Concierge: Oh gosh! My apologies. That might be Early Onset Menopause. Dear, dear, dear. We were hoping to make your stay here a little more pleasant, but it seems you added that to your package deal.

40-year-old dimwit (Looking around frantically): It seems I’ve lost my waist. Have you seen it?

Concierge (dryly): Ha haaa! You’re so adorable. It’s here in the rubbish bin! Metabolism threw it out as soon as you walked in. If you’re looking for your libido, it’s in there as well. We wrapped in in fish paste, should you go sniffing for it. Easy to find that way – but do you really want to? Shall we take a stroll and show what else is in store for you?

You ever see those old ladies who do something so infantile and nonsensical that the only appropriate response is to sit and chuckle to themselves? I finally get why. After 40, you don’t understand how you got here. How is it so difficult to perform tasks that you could previously knock out with your eyes closed? Tasks like…I dunno…tying your shoes. Yeah. That’s a good one. Ever notice how people over 40 rarely wear lace-ups? Because it’s HARD WORK. And buckles? Just forget it.

I had a really witty ending to this whole rant, but as you might’ve guessed, I can’t recall what it is. And being filled with foolhardy self-confidence (something I should’ve relinquished in my 20s), I refused to write it down from the beginning. So…. Yeah. The End.  

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