Dave says that I've been obsessed with turning 40 since I was 38. It was the point when I couldn't say I was in my mid 30s, that I was in my late 30s, which can only lead to 40. (Oh, dear God. 40!) And these past 3 months have been especially hard on poor Dave since I flip-flop on the issue of celebrating this momentous occasion. One day I want to rent a huge estate in the Tuscan countryside for all my family and friends, and the next day I want to crawl into a hole wearing a black hoodie and sunglasses. Today I decided that I would usher in a new decade with a lonely spa day and then drink myself silly.
My daughter Masana, who is 9 years old, was an emotional wreck last night. She realized that she was getting older and that she would enter the realm of double digits--10--gasp!--in less than six months. Between breathy sobs she explained that she didn't want to get older, that she liked being 9.
Well, join the club, little girl. I don't want to get older either. And with my 40th birthday looming ahead, I have absolutely no sympathy.
Okay, I take that back. How can even the blackest of hearts not soften at the sight of my soon to be 10 year old?
I think that I'm getting hot flashes. Maybe that's the reason for my unstable rants. Or that I simply will not go gently into the night.