Upon being wished a happy birthday on the morning he turned four, my middle son looked down at himself in amazement, and said, "But I'm still three!"
I felt the same way when Patrick reminded me it was my 40th birthday this morning.
I'm not sure what turning forty means, if it means anything at all. When I was a kid, forty seemed old. "Over the hill," according to the greeting cards and paper plates. Over what hill, I wonder. Over the the struggling, aspiring, climbing phase of life? I don't feel over that. But my stride feels stronger, and more steady. And I'm far enough up the hill to look over my shoulder and be knocked out by the view. So much broader than it was when I was 20, or even 30. I can see for miles.
That's worth celebrating. And I believe in leveraging a milestone for all it's worth. I figure it's good for the whole year. To get this party started, a few girlfriends and I went to Dallas Saturday. We stayed at the charming Belmont Hotel, chowed down on outstanding fish tacos at Cafe Veracruz, and went dancing at the fabulously appointed Ghost Bar (full of douchery, but nonetheless a glittering spectacle). We swilled prosecco, made too much noise, and some of us may even have gone skinny dipping. The next morning, we wandered down to Smoke and ate a breakfast that was so good, as one of my friends put it, "it makes you want to slap someone."
It was ridiculously fun. Over the top, certainly.
Over the hill? No way.