It’s been a couple of weeks since I posted. I weighed in on Feb 1 and was down 3.3 lbs and I weighed in late this week (today) and am down 1.5 lbs.
Coming back after my back injury has been good. I am sluggish with my running. I am killing the weights and classes at the rec centre (except the evil class where the evil Cruella DeVille hurt me).
I found it hard to post last week. I turned 40 on January 31. I know, I know. I look waaayy too young to be 40! Thank you, you’re too kind. Thank you to all my friends and family who emailed, texted, messaged, sang, gave cupcakes, cakes, gifts, etc.Mom & in-laws popped by for dinner and cake on that fateful Tuesday. Mom took some photos of me on my phone when the cake was brought to me. Later on, when I was alone and saw the picture, I cried. Man, I looked awful in that picture. I know – I’m more than a number. I’ve lost inches. I’m more active than ever. It still hurt.
Turning 40 bothers me. Those who tell me “it’s just a number” aren’t 40 yet and can fuck off (in the nicest way). I don’t know why I feel like I need to feel old or what does old even feel like? I don’t feel any older than I am. I came across this older article in the Huffington Post, How it Really Feels to Turn 40 and I love the comment:
“I’ve never been one to get caught up in worries about appearances very much, but I can guarantee that anyone who says they don’t mind the physical repercussions of aging is lying. No woman likes making her resting face and having her daughter ask why she’s mad. No woman enjoys slipping money to a bouncer who once waved her to the front of the line (I can imagine this might be true anyway — personally, my bedtime leaves no opportunity for clubs). No woman enjoys when a mammogram machine gets to second base with her.”
I read about people turning 40 and coming to terms with it. How it’s a “new chapter” and adventure; blah, blah, blah. Coming to terms with changes; blah, blah, blah. Well, la-ti-da. Good for you. Bugger off. I’m not ready to accept that I’m 40. Not even close. I’m throwing an adult-sized tantrum. I’m stomping up the stairs, slamming my bedroom door, getting in my jammies, drinking my vodka and reading a book.