If life begins at 40, I will be a year old in a matter of minutes. I will be crossing over from borderline, not-quite-there-yet forty to the very real 'ty-one. Greetings will come pouring in, my inbox will be swamped, and I will be well on my way to nearing the "middle ages." My middle ages.
When I was a lot younger and a lot more clueless, I thought forty and beyond was old. Ancient, in fact. I thought forty is when one stops growing pimples and starts growing fangs, when one is bogged down by children, by worries, by life to have time for anything else, when one is on the verge of retirement. I thought forty forbids comebacks: that at forty one can never bounce back, or start all over again.
Well, Gabby Concepcion is back, and to some degree I am swooning. "Forty and beyond" is not quite the sorry state that I thought it to be. There is still magic in full moons and sunsets. There is still wonder in stories and in a child's gaze. There is still true joy in friendships and in getting things done. There is eternal gratitude for love, for life, for renewal.
The clock is ticking, and soon I will be forty one. I have dietary (flab, oh flab!) and dermatological (laugh lines, not wrinkles) issues. But hey, this business of growing older and (I hope) wiser, is not so bad at all.