At 07:35 am on March 3, 1980, I came into this world. (With a little help from my mom, of course. Thanks, Mom!!)

Last Tuesday was the 40th anniversary of my born day.
I have lived 40 years, 480 months, 2,087 weeks, or 14,610 days.

I am the BIG FOUR OH!

There, I said it. I am 40. Forty. It doesn’t compute, not really.
Well, how about I’m 18 with 22 years of experience, much better.

I feel that my 40th born-day is kind of a watershed moment, and for a good reason:
I’m old enough to know better but young enough to do it anyway. I mean, they don’t call it “middle-aged” for nothing.

When I was a kid, I would sometimes calculate how old I would be when the year 2000 hit. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be 25 years old!
Forty years old seemed like a lifetime away.
Yet here I am, turning 40 years old.

I hated my teens
I disliked my 20s
and I loved my 30s
I wonder why I can’t stay in my 30s – indefinitely.

Please, save the tired clichés such as “40 is the new 30” and all that.
This is a milestone, and I am so grateful that I get to experience it and that I’m still in reasonably good health.
I just wish to stay in my 30s – indefinitely.


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