40

I'm about to turn forty.

Forty.

I'm not really feeling it.

I just edited this, but - the more I write forty the less it means. The more it seems misspelled.

forty

Huh. Nope. Nothing.

Nothing has happened yet.

My left knee does hurt a little when I sit like a geisha for too long.

And (these days) I have what can only be described as more manageable acne.

And each year has brought me a better understanding of my hair-do.

But that's to be expected.

Admittedly, I've weighed less.

Though, to be fair I've weighed more.

I've felt worse than I do right now.

I've been closer to death.

More confused.

Less informed.

More focused.

I've been less responsible.

Now, I'm irresponsible, unfocused and informed.

In the past I've been less restrained, yet more repressed.

As well, less tolerant, and more anxious.

I've known less while I've assumed more.

I've had bigger problems, more money, less savings.

I've learned things, abandoned what I've learned and come back again.

That is, I've known that I was right, then (with time) realized that I was wrong - then (with more time) realized that I was right in the first place.

(and that sort of thing takes at least thirty-five years).

Yes.

In ten years I may feel differently, but right now I wouldn't want to go back.

Except if I could go back to childhood knowing everything that I know right now. And do it all over again.

And only under those conditions.

Some part of me believes that that's possible.

It must be.

Next time.

As in, next time I turn twenty I won't worry about turning forty.

If only I had known..