Whew! Whew! Whew! Breathe. Slowly. Deeply. Whew! Whew! Whew!
Isn’t that what they teach you in birthing classes? And Yoga? And if you’re about to jump out of an airplane? Or be run over by a herd of buffalo?
Control your breathing. Take slow, deep breaths. Relax. Whatever you do … don’t freakin’ freak out!
Or when you’re hyperventilating? They tell you that. Grab a paper bag and breathe into it. Why? Because if you breathe back in all that carbon dioxide you’re expelling, you will pass out. Then your hyperventilating is someone else’s problem. See how that works? Genius! A paper bag!
I’m not hyperventilating. I’m not freaking out. But I have come to a revelation — Whew! Whew! Whew! — I’m turning 40 next month.
Oh goodness, in a couple of weeks.
I’ve been totally comfortable with that. Been telling people, “Yeah I’m turning 40 next year. No problemo. Forty can bite me on the keaster! I ain’t sweating it. Next year will be a breeze.”
The problem? Now it’s “next year” and 40 is starting to bite me on the keaster. It hurts a little bit. I think it might actually be a “problemo.”
Whew! Whew! Whew! Breathe. Slowly. Deeply. Whew! Whew! Whew!
I don’t know why it suddenly matters. The realization that it’s happening? The immediacy? The fact that I’ve probably been lying to myself all along? “Forty doesn’t scare me” really means, “Holy cucarachas, I’m gonna’ die!”
I’m around college students all the time, and more and more I’ve been having this exchange:
Me: “I’m turning 40 next month.”
Uppity, snot-nose, hipster college student: “Wo, dude! Impressive. I think my dad is 40. Are you retitring?”
Me: “Well, at least I don’t look 40, right?”
Student: “Yeah … um … OK … so, considering your advanced age and that I don’t want to give you a heart attack, what’s my proper response here? Let me text a friend.”
Darn college kids!
I’ve been so confident — so SURE — that turning 40 isn’t a big deal that I never stopped to consider that maybe it is. That I might actually be in some kind of weird “40 denial.” Totally lying to myself about it. Shoot, maybe I’m also stealing money from savings to fund a gambling habit. I’m gonna’ be 40! I can’t afford a gambling habit!
Denial is when someone asks if something hurts. Blood is pouring down your arm. There is a hatchet lodged in your shoulder. You’re holding your detached arm in your good hand. And yet you say, “No problemo. It’s a flesh wound. It can bite me on the keaster. I ain’t sweating it.”
Ahhhh! That’s me!
I mean, I reason with myself. What does it really matter, our age? (I tell myself this in a column, trying to defer a nervous breakdown.) Because are things really going to change next month? If you take the numbers away, is 40 going to be any different than 39.
Which is also the problem: BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW!!! I’ve never been 40 before. I’ve seen other people do it. But they all moped around for weeks. Drank large quantities of tequila. Bought a semi-used mid-life crisis on eBay. Started dying their hair. Told younger people in very dramatic, awkward, drunken moments: “Live, dammit! Just LIVE!!!”
I want to go into 40 proud, confident, fearless. Or just OK with it. And I thought I was. What happened? Maybe I just need to come to terms with it. Face it, but not dismiss it. Yes, it’s another year older. It’s a big turning point. A major mile marker in the race of life. (Dude, do you say clichéd things like that when you’re 40?)
Maybe focus on the upside. I remember as a kid being impressed when my dad turned 40. It was pretty cool. I thought it meant he had all kinds of wisdom. Like Confucius. Or Johnny Carson.
Have I accumulated wisdom yet? Will it start to come out next year? Wouldn’t that be great? I’m going to focus on that. Something to look forward to. Something to drown out the little, hidden worries I’ve been denying. And something to use on all those hipster college kids while I’m trying to breathe. Slowly. Deeply. Whew! Whew! Whew!