Forty. Fucking. Nine.

And just like that, I blinked and hit the big four nine.  You’d think at my age I wouldn’t feel compelled to announce it. Would, perhaps, be more content to fly under the radar, requiring those who wonder to Google it.  

I won’t deny that I thought about keeping quiet. I hate the self-indulgence of publishing a ‘me’ story. I get a good amount of attention. I don’t need a parade on my birthday.

But then a little voice inside my head questioned whether I was playing into a female stereotype:

The ‘aging’ woman who buys into the expectation that with each passing year, she will fade and become a little more invisible.

And that’s all it took to get my inner rebel stirred up.

Here’s what I think about entering the last year of my 40’s and facing down fifty.

Holy shit. I can’t believe I just wrote that.

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