The night before I turned twenty-one, I was sleeping over at my Aunt Carleen's apartment. She took the opportunity to tell me the best years of my life were now officially over and everything would be going downhill from here.
I was horrified. I am glad to report Aunt Carleen was completely wrong.
I really haven't had any birthday crisis since then. On my 40th birthday I was prepared for a big crisis, of course. In fact, I was up at 11:55, counting down until my birthday, the big Four-Oh, preparing to be slapped with a major emotional epiphany. Luckily I was also scrolling through the cable at the same time, so my thoughts were:
"Okay, here we go. Almost forty. Age gracefully. Forty is the new twenty. You sill have your health. It's just a numbe -- What's this? Thunderbirds is on! Cool! I haven't seen that since I was five! It's on at midnight! And I can stay up to watch it because I'm FORTY now and I DO WHAT I WANT, bitches!"
(And I'm talking Classic Thunderbirds here, not the crap monstrosity of the live-action movie. Think Team America without the sex. And the vomiting. Still, little puppets driving little racecars and smoking eentsy cigarettes and drinking teeny-tiny cocktails. For the Kids!)
So, twenty-first birthday: Bad. Fortieth birthday: Good.
I haven't quite hit the eve of my forty-fourth birthday (it's in a few days), but I did spend eighty dollars today on scrubs and toners and anti-aging creams.