In 47 days I’m turning 40, a milestone that’s been stalking me for the better part of the past year – a shadowy presence in the dark corners of my mind and in moments when I’m alone and vulnerable.
I remember my parents turning 40, feted with black balloons and snarky cards about being over the hill. My father received a cane from his close circle of friends; my mother swore in slightly frantic tones that she still felt 29.
Forty has received a spiffy new makeover since then, but I still find myself approaching this thug of a birthday with slow steps, a white flag, and soothing words: “I come in peace.” Or at least I’m trying to.
