when I turned 20, I cried. I could remember being a 12 year-old and being enamored of my best friend’s 20 year-old cousin who seemed so grown up. so, when I became 20, I felt old.

when I turned 30, I was fine. it didn’t really matter to me one way or another.

unfortunately, when I turned 40, it did matter to me. I cried, but only 4 or 5 tears, the rest was internal. when I was younger, I had every intention of being fabulous when I was in my 40’s. but I’m not. I’m not fabulous, or fit, or fancy, or fulfilled, or fashionable. instead, I’m I feel faded, fiery, foolish, fatigued, sometimes ferocious, fickle…

I’m not sure what I reckoned 40 felt like, but this isn’t how I pictured it. I realize that it’s all a state of mind, and that I am only half way (I hope) through this life of mine, but I don’t want to end up with more regrets than I already have. maybe that’s it, I worry that I won’t use this second half in a respectable manner.

to top it off, tonight tony said that he wasn’t sure what he wanted to be when he grows up. then he said maybe he wouldn’t be anything, ‘like you, mama’

oh, well. I think I’m going to take rich’s coworker’s advice. she said when she got to her late 30’s, she thought back, and realized that 28 was the best year of her life, so that’s the age she’s sticking with.

as it happens, 28 was also my best year. it was the year I married the man I love, the year I finally started to grow up.

so, instead of being 40, I think I’ll be 28. I wonder if anyone will believe me. I bet not, too many people have already asked me if I’m emma’s grandmother.

as I’ve said before, some days you’re the cat, other days…the cat box