Happy Birthday to Mumabulous. I turn 42 this week (as the Sherlock Holmes’ among you may have deducted). The correct response to this information is to utter something like ” No waaaaay. Can’t be! You look so young” with a look of incredulity. Unfortunately that was not my husband’s reaction.
Thirty was the last of the traumatic birthdays for me. The three Oooooh is supposed to mark the gateway into successful adulthood. If I could map my twenties they’d look like a spaghetti tangle of relationship roads to nowhere and career cul-de-sacs. When I reached thirty I felt like I had been left forlornly on the pier watching the Love Boat sail away without me. By contrast, forty was a joyous celebration. By that time my stars had miraculously aligned. I had the husband and children of my dreams as well as a career that sounded better on paper than it actually was. Any pain I may have felt about leaving my misspent youth behind was soothed by Dadabulous’ gift of a brand spanking new Mazda 2. I also got treated to mighty fancy dinner at Marque restaurant and a champagne picnic in Centennial Park with friends. It was the best birthday I’ve ever had.
Forty two – the middle of my early forties. This age conjures up images of seductive MILFs a-la Mrs Robinson or, for the Gen Y’s, Stifler’s Mom. Should I don the designer jewellery and unleash my inner cougar? Riiiii-ooooow! I’m not sure that tempting young graduates is quite my thing. The handsome twenty year old neighbor, for instance, has never acknowledged my existence. His sixty year old father, on the other hand, always nods and smiles. There’s the sugar Daddy option. He’s one dashing silver fox but I’m just not up for adultery. Dadabulous is too good for that. I’d never have an affair but it would be nice to think that I could, just to prove that I’ve still “got it” (if I ever had it). I did get a small scrap of affirmation from the male of the species this morning. I was rocking my fancy pants (printed leggings) on my morning coffee run when I noticed the dudes in the council garbage truck smiling at me. Perhaps the garbologists were thinking they’d see my dacks soon a professional capacity – that is to say that they belonged in the back of their truck rather on a middle aged woman. As you can sense, I’m feeling a tad self conscious about the leggings and at 42 I should be well over that.
Mentally I often feel as clueless as I was when I was 18. Unfortunately the twinges of pain in my hips or a glance at my withered hands reminds me that I’m a grown up. Fortunately there is one geekiliciously awesome thing about this age. Anyone who’s read (or seen the movie) Hitch Hiker’s Guide To The Galaxy will be aware of 42’s ultimate significance. According to the imagination of Douglas Adams a group of hyper-intelligent pan-dimensional beings demanded to learn the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe, and Everything from the supercomputer, Deep Thought, specially built for this purpose. It takes Deep Thought 7½ million years to compute and check the answer, which turns out to be 42. The Ultimate Question itself is unknown.*
My age is the answer, even though nobody knows the question. That is something to be celebrated my friends.
* from Wikipedia