Ima make 40 ma bitch I turned 40 this morning at 12:30 am–EASTERN Time. That’s actually 9:30 pm Pacific Time. I toasted myself and flipped off the clock, the calendar, and the universe in general.
Mostly, of course, I want to flip myself off. I HATE pity parties. God, Theresa, get OVER yourself.
I know you want to slap me. Trust me, I want to slap me. I have NOTHING to bitch about. I have 2 incredible kids, and goddamnit, I KNOW I can take credit for a LOT of that. I have a phenomenal marriage—more than half my doing, as the King will attest. I have great friends. We own a nice house. I live in a country where I am free to post all KINDS of crazy shit on the interwebs. I love the town where I live. We have food and shelter and clothing. Clean water. Wah wah wah. Usually, enumerating these blessings in my life yanks me out of whatever funk I’m in.
So why am I being such a whiny little bitch?
Well, as I told my husband, “I feel like all the lies have caught up with me.” All the lies I’ve told myself about what I should do, and where I should be, at 40.
What a crock of shoulds.
This isn’t like me. I’ve never been uptight about getting older. But at 25, I loved my job and was engaged to The King. By 30, we’d bought a house and I was knocked up with Faerie Child. At 35, I’d had 2 kids, was my fighting weight, and felt like I was entering a new phase in my life. Up until now, I was always right where I thought I should be. *SIGH*
For years I have been looking FORWARD to turning 40. Why? Because in my jacked-up mind, by 40, I’d have accomplished all kinds of shit. I’d be established in my career. Our 100-yr-old house would be fully renovated. We’d be financially independent. I’d be my optimal weight. We’d be traveling more because the kids are finally old enough—AND we’d have the money to do it.
Also, I’d have learned to really accept myself. *EYE ROLL* I thought I had that one down. Turns out, not so much.
I’m in the best shape of my life. I ran a half-marathon on my 39th birthday, and I am in
better shape now than I was a year ago. But I’m still a size 12/14, and realistically, I always will be. So of course, I’m not happy with my weight. Or my gut. Or the fact that, despite having rock-hard upper arms, I have 40-yr-old skin hanging down from my triceps. And back-bacon over my bra. *SIGH* (I do have smokin’ gams, though. Ask Ammi.)
I wanted to be “established in a career.” What career? My kids are only 9 and 6. I’ve been homeschooling the 9-yr-old the last 3 years, and finally found (hell, I helped create) a school situation that will work for her. So next year, when they’re in 1st and 4th grades, will be the first time in my motherhood life that I will actually have 6 straight hours a day kidfree. Five days a week. I can hardly imagine it. “So,” Sane Theresa says to Crazed Theresa, “when the hell were you supposed to have established this fantastic career? You DID establish a career. You’re a MOM.”
I wanted to be traveling more. Know what I finally admitted to myself? I fucking HATE traveling. If it’s more than a 5-hr-drive, it seems like too much damn work. And the older I get, the less inclined I am to leave the Northwest. I like it here. When we have vacation time, I like to hang out here. Call me crazy for liking where I live.
Our house was supposed to be fully renovated. For god’s sake, we’ve been here 5 whole years! *SNORT* Yeah, right. That’s just not our style. The King and I are LAZY and we love to lie around on Sundays. Actually, we kind of NEED to lie around on Sundays. I’ve noticed that all 4 of us in this family—even the eternally social La Diva—really need a “down day,” where we don’t have to BE anywhere, don’t need to DO anything, preferably once a week.
So I’ll always be a size 12/14. Oh well. I can do the splits, run a 10K in around an hour, and do a pretty badass sidekick that will break a ¾ inch thick board.
My “career” can wait. My kids can’t. For now, I can be satisfied with a small number of satisfied clients. Also, every time someone says to me, “Your blog/FB page makes me feel normal, like I’m not a horrible parent,” it seriously fills my heart.
We’ll travel where we want, when we want, when we can afford to. For now, little
vacations with our kids are good enough. What difference does it make if a memory is made in Paris, France or Bend, Oregon? As long as we’re together and laughing, ’sall good.
I’ll never be an energizer bunny constantly on the run. I truly have reached the point where I can look at friends who are always on the go, always getting shit done, and think, “That’s not me. That’s not us. And that’s OK.”
As for our house, I mean, JAYsus, it’s a hundred years old. I can live with it being a work in progress. I like my Sundays too goddamned much, thank you very much.
All right, I feel better. A little. Admitting you’re being a whiny little bitch is the first step to slapping yourself out of it, right?
Also, I found a loophole. One time where my anal-retentive nerdiness is actually coming in damn handy. See, all us nerds know that the new millennium REALLY started in 2001—not 2000. The year 2000 was the LAST year of the 20th Century. So technically, turning 40 means this is the last year of my 30s. So suck it, Universe! I have one more year to make myself proud.