The Face Down

As Tallulah laments the approaching end of her 38th year (which is actually the culmination of her 39th year, but she doesn't like it when I say things like that), I commiserate and am compelled to share my own age-related revelations, as I passed this same chronological milestone myself but 33 days ago.

Fancying myself a ration-based realist (keep the giggling down, you), I prefer to "face down" the lurking ghouls of my own fears rather than allow them to take me unawares at a moment of vulnerability. At least, this is my theory. To this end, I loudly declare that I refuse to entertain dolled-up fantasies of eternal youth or 40 being the New 30. And, furthermore, I brashly state that turning 39 means that 40 has already cast its shadow at my doorstep.

I am also well aware that each successive year of life I've experienced so far has passed with an accelerating speed that leaves me often unable to remember my origin, destination or age. As my husband often asks, "How old are we, again?"

So, for the last 39th birthday-tainted month or so, I've been steadily chanting, "You, Yaye, are starting your 40th year of life. Face it!" Which makes me forget all about actually being only 39, as my eyes flicker nervously toward the trembling speedometer needle which seems to be reaching past the 40.....twitching recklessly closer to the midway marker....already hurtling me forward to that next big round number....the rapidly passing landscape bleeding into itself and blurring.....a dummy light on the dashboard flashing "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Sweet Mother of Mayhem.