Turning 40

There's a boatload of hype that comes with turning 40. Turning 30 is a nonevent, it just means you're no longer the idjet you were in your twenties and you're probably spending most of your time taking care of kids. Forty comes with accessories that thirty never considered: those little half-glasses for reading, calcium supplements, and a whole new respect for bran.

I'm all for entering a new era. I enjoyed my kids when they were babies, but I love watching them grow into little adults. Don't get me wrong, it's not all a bowl of cherries, like driver's training for instance. No wonder my parents never drove with me. They just turned me loose on my sister's VW Beetle and that was the end of it. Jordan can only do so much, because his brain is highly utilized in the area of making crap up. For instance, when he's approaching an intersection, he struggles between day dreaming and the brake pedal. While I'm stomping a hole in the floor (the imaginary brake pedal, I guess I make stuff up too) he's happy in Jordanland.

Forgetfulness harbors a new level of stress. When you're younger and forget something, it means nothing, but as you age, you begin to assign it value. It becomes a symptom. Am I starting to lose it? Where are my Omega-3 pills? I scrutinize my mother's behavior, looking for signs of dementia. Is it coming for me?

How often I find myself standing in a room, wondering why did I come in here? The other day I was standing in the laundry room wracking my brain. Do I need something in here? I scan the linen closet, no. The washer and dryer are both going, I don't need to change out laundry. Then a familiar pang hits me. My bladder is full. I meant to go into the bathroom, but I missed the turn and headed straight into the laundry room.

My mammogram schedule is stepping up this year. I've been doing this every two years since I was thirty. Most women don't even start mammograms until forty, but my mom and grandma both had breast cancer, so that puts me into a high-risk category. The two most prominent genetic diseases in my family are Alzheimer's and breast cancer. My grandma got them in that order, so as I was helping her get dressed after the mastectomy, she insisted on wearing a bra. I told her I didn't think she needed to put one on, but she motioned toward the area where her breast used to be and said, "I've always been busty. I can't run around without having these in a bra." Well, you can't argue with that. We put her imaginary boobs in and away we went.

I guess I'm not ready for the boobless funny farm just yet. I've got other mile stones to pass. My boys need to graduate high school and college. I'm looking forward to menopause. Since global warming has turned out to be a bust, I'm ready for those hot flashes. Maybe I'll do some shopping. Now that Montgomery Ward has gone under, I don't even know where people my age are supposed to shop. Who sells half-glasses and moo-moos? Oh, I know, it must be Walmart!