So I turned 45 today. So that’s a thing I’m doing. Also apparently beginning sentences with “so,” now. I’m pretty sure I resolved to stop that somewhere back in my thirties, but hell, I’m FORTY FIVE. I’ve earned the right. By the time I’m fifty I’ll be misplacing modifiers everywhere. At 70 I’m only going to write in all caps. Send my son texts in serif fonts. See if I won’t.
I turned 35 a few months after I began this blog, and I remember turning 35 more than I remember any other birthday because 35 was the first birthday I fretted over. Like, ooh, I’m 35, that’s so old. I’m old now.
I now find the idea that 35 is old to be hilariously adorable. Adorably hilarious. 35! Like a baby, I was. Still covered in vernix. I was a little gross, come to think of it.
I got my Age Crisis out of the way at 35 and now I see how silly it was. How can I freak out about 45? If I freak out now, then in the distant future, when I’m a brain suspended in a bucket of nutrient-fortified goo, I'll have to transmit orders to my android body-replacement to chuckle ruefully about it. And I can’t have that. I’ll have more important things to do, like battle the monstrous virus army, and crochet.
I mean, however old you are, you’re as young as you’re ever going to be. Oof, that’s obvious. Now that I’m 45 I’m going to issue really obvious pronouncements like that one. Also: be nice to people. Not to mention: sunscreen. You’re so very welcome.
(What does it say about me that I thought Sarah Silverman was the person who sang this song? I wasted a good 3 minutes of what's left of this wild and precious life Googling "Sarah Silverman Older Song." Did she sing a similar song? Sorry, what was that? SPEAK UP HONEY.)
I’ve only been 45 for about twelve hours, but so far it feels exactly the same. Except it’s colder. That might be the weather? Either way, it’s easily fixed with a little something I like to call “layers.” This is the kind of wisdom you gain at 45. I like it. I like you. Let’s keep getting older, shall we?