So today I turned the big 4-0. It’s a day I’ve dreaded since I was a pre-teen watching the Brady Bunch in its original reruns, hearing Cindy say that the year 2000 sounded so far away. Always a pessimist, I remember thinking, “If 2000 is so far away, what’s 2010 going to be like?” On my 40th birthday, I expected to be married (to a man), moneyed, and middle-management.
Yesterday, after another morning of job searching, an afternoon telling the potential new guy “Let’s just be friends,” and an evening buying discount Epsom Salt at Walgreen’s, I noticed my roommates had left a quart and a half of Rocky Road in the freezer. On the eve of my 40th birthday? Fools. Well, I showed them.
I started 40 by waking up today with a migraine. Several dozen birthday wishes from friends near and far on my Facebook wall helped clear up the persistent urge to vomit. That’s not counting all the folks who thought it would be comforting to tell me “40 is the new 25.” I’ll visit them in their mausoleums if, by the same logic, I manage to make it to 120.
Still. I’m not the oldest person in Chicago. Most of my friends are older and likely find that sentence less than charitable. In my defense, I haven’t started 50 therapy yet, so I make no apologies for the shock of realizing I’m now the age my mother was when she had me. To cheer myself up on this heinous, hateful day, I thought I’d take a look at some things that are even older than I am:
Lake Michigan is older than I am.
Fire is older than I am.
The wheel is older than I am.
Dirt is older than I am.
Cinnamon rolls at Ann Sather’s are older than I am. Frequently.
Janet Davies is older than I am.
Dinosaurs are older than I am.
And, of course, Larry King is older than all of the above.
If only I could get up from this chair without making an old-man noise, I’d feel a lot better right now.