39

It’s my 39th birthday today. I’ve scheduled this post in anticipation of being far too busy unwrapping Tatty Devine boxes and eating cake.

I love my birthday. I’m the eldest of four and as a kid my birthday was the one day it was all about me. I’ve not quite grown out of my prima donna tendencies and relish the opportunity for a day where I am Queen of the Universe. Sadly, g refuses to entertain any of my delusions of grandeur and I will not be reclining on the sofa with him popping peeled grapes into my mouth.

What I will be doing is marvelling at the fact I’m 39. Do you not need to be a grown up to be in the last year of your 30’s?

I’m ok with ageing. I know that I’m not meant to be. I should be raging against wrinkles, battling bingo wings and saddened by saggy bits. Societal daftness about my needing to look like I’ve been dooked in the fountain of youth hasn’t taken hold here.

I like that my forehead advertises how much I frown when I’m concentrating. The crinkles round my eyes show off that I smile, a lot. The lines from my nose to corners of my mouth well they frame my choochy cheeks. I’m constantly disappointed at how few grey hairs I actually have, I’m desperate for long silvery locks. Previous bleaching disasters mean that I am waiting for Mother Nature on this one.

All that said, 40 is a very big number. It appears to have got me thinking. I’m approaching it with positivity aware that I want to be fabulous at 40. So I wrote a list.

40 things to tick off before next November. Some daft, some heartfelt and a couple of biggies. I’m not going to share them here, mainly because I doubt that you are reading this to cure insomnia.

But rest assured. Not a single one of these 40 things involves expensive anti-wrinkle creams, intensive exercise regimes or in any way trying to erase the story my face can tell.

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