Women in Their 40s

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Well, and so it has happened.

I have been tapped to post up an old lady blog.

Just kidding.

40 is not old.

Hell, 40 is not even half my life.

The women in my family live long.  I had four great-grandmothers that lived into their 90s and two of them actually lived into their 100s.

I will concede my maternal grandmother did die early.

From what I understand she ignored a health issue.  She knew she was not doing well.  I remember being told that she did not actually want the treatment that was offered when she finally went to see the doctors.

I do not know a lot about the situation or how it played out.

I was too busy pulling my head out of my ass from all the drinking and using I had been doing to numb out the pain of being alive.

Pain.

Ha.

I love being alive.

Yes, there is pain, no doubt about that, but now I look at it as an opportunity to grow.

Or rather, I look at it with perspective, I have seen how when I try to numb out it does not work.  If I want it to go away I have to go through it rather than around it, or under it, or hiding from it.  I cannot fuck everything and run.

I have to face everything and recover.

That being said, I can sympathise with my grandmother choosing to keep being sick quiet.

The woman had over fourteen pregnancies.

My uterus would probably fall the fuck out too.

Seeing as how I haven’t had fourteen pregnancies, or one for that matter, that I no longer smoke cigarettes, snort cocaine, do speed, drop acid, drink double dirty martinis on the rocks with beer backs, trip on ecstasy, eat sugar, or processed flour, I may live on the longer end of things.

I also do things that I used to not do.

I walk, a lot.

I ride my bike.

Not as “a lot” at the moment as I would like, it has been a little too cold.  When there are snow flurries falling I am not too interested in getting in the saddle and going for a spin.

I exercise.

I started swimming again.

The little old French lady taking up the whole lane myth is pretty spot on.  I swam behind her toes a lot today.  She was cute though.  I want to be the little old lady swimming into my 50s and 60s and 70s.

Hell why not into my 80s?

Swimming is great exercise, it is easy on your joints and great for your breathing.

It is hell on your hair.

Chlorine.

I was laughing to myself tonight when I got back from the pool and was debating on whether to go to the cafe and write or get into the shower, I pulled off my scarf, felt my hair, and immediately decided shower.  How come when I decided to grow my hair out it coincided with wanting to go swimming again?

Short hair is so much easier to deal with, however, the rule of wearing a swim cap in the pools does help.  I prefer swimming with a cap and goggles anyhow.

Aside, I did send out a query on my book and I also applied for a job blogging about Paris.  I do feel that I was proactive in my writing today.  Plus, of course, writing said blog and putting together some ideas for the blog that I have been asked to be a part of.

I am actually quite flattered to be thought of.

I do not know if it was my age or the timing or what in my life that prompted the move.  I believe it was a number of things, not just the desire to have some experience by the time I reached 40.

Fact is, I don’t feel 40.

I dare say I don’t look 40 either.

Especially if you look at the OkStupid e-mails I have gotten recently.

FYI.

If you are in Atlanta, Georgia, I am really not interested in sending you a full body pic.

Please.

Go harass some one on the same continent as you.

I may actually have a coffee date on Thursday, which I just realized is Valentines Day.

Bahahahaha.

I have never been on a blind date on Valentines Day.

That will be fodder for the old blog machine, now won’t it?

I could use some action though, if I tell the truth.

The room-mate is away and I would like to play.

Nothing will probably happen, but it is nice to think about it.

That is a difference in being 40, I suppose.

Or it may just be a difference in experience, which generally does come hand in hand with age.  The older I get the less likely I am to just hook up with some one.  I want the cake and eat it too part.

I like pillow talk.

I like conversation.

I like to talk period.

If it were just about having sex, I would have gotten laid by now.  I am not stupid.  I am American, but I am not stupid.  I see how easy it would be to just flirt back with the men on the Metro or the ones in the Montmartre.

But they are sleazy.

I don’t want sleazy.

I am not sleazy.

40 the new not sleazy.

40 the new sexy.

I look better, feel better, and have better ink than I did at 30.

Fuck, I was a hot mess at 30.

I am only getting better.

As a friend once said, “the best is yet to come.”

I believe that.

My best is still yet to come.

Watch out.

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