This is "40"

My 40th lap around El Sol happened while I was on vacation. Depending on how you score, I either turned 40 in San Antonio, or New Braunfels, which is where I was at 6:01pm, which is when I was born on July 25, 1967. I was premature by at least a month. In a hurry then. In a hurry now.

40 was hard for me. On one level, it was this big, black, over the hill, round number, birthday. Then, on another level, I was dealing with it being my first birthday since Mom died. That's a hard one. When the person who gave you life, is no longer alive to acknowledge the day that commemorates the event.

The coup de grâce though was that my 40th birthday, which was on Wednesday, fell on the 40th week mark of Mom's death, which occurred on a Wednesday. Seriously.

So yet again, I ask myself, what does it mean, if anything? You'd think, at 40, 40! I would have some idea. I don't. Actually it is the exact opposite. The older I get, the less (I feel) I know.

I've been trying to put 40 in context the past week, spending a lot of time trying to remember what my parents were like when they were 40.

Jerr turned 40 in 1977, I was 10. Mom, turned 40 in 1981, I was 14. Looking back, I can't recall them well at 40. Since they were my parents, they always seemed so much older than me ---- 40 seems ancient when you are 10 or 14. I can't even imagine what it will seem like for my Boy(s) who are 5 1/2 and 3 1/2. Fuck me.

Looking back on my 40th, I have to say, it sucked. The thing I realize now, hindsight and all that, is that short of a resurrection my birthday had no chance of not sucking. It was what it was. Hard.

So, Happy Birthday to me, now that I'm officially middle age. That's not even true. Fuck, if I'm Mom, I have 25 years left. She died at 65. Her Mom, old granny, is 84, and going strong. If I get that, I'm not even there. The thing. I don't know.

You won't either Dear Reader.

So my advice is this: live.

Until I BLOG again...(Will I?) sing a new song.