It's Got to Start Somewhere

 I turn 40 years old in exactly 6 weeks and I am not ready. I'm not really sure what that means, I just know that deep in my soul I should not be 40. It feels like I'm on a terrible rollercoaster, the kind with loops and you're upside down and then you reach the really steep incline and the chain is making the awful creaking sound as you slowly approach the top and there's the pause before you plummet down fast and your stomach flip flops and it feels like you're doing to die. The creaking sound? Yeah, those are my joints. I am not a roller coaster person. When I went with my friends to Six Flags on senior cut day, I was the one who held everyone's bags as they joined the lines for the rides and I stood safely on the ground hearing the screams of terror (and probably also some adrenaline and maybe fun) echoing throughout the park. I don't like this feeling. I want the last two years back that I forfeited to the fear of viruses and hatred and shootings where I only left the house to go to work and grocery store. Those were the last years of my 30s, my last chance to sort things out before I hit 40. 

I don't think I look like I'm 40. Mid 30s maybe. Except for the sprays of gray hair framing my face. And I see the sag of skin under my jaw. And flabby arms. Okay, I see the effects of gravity throughout my body. Tiny spider veins around my ankles. And I prefer to enlarge the windows on my laptop so the font is bigger. And I don't know half the names mentioned in People magazine. I'm not on TikTok, and just barely on Instagram. I'll hear new slang words and I have no idea what they mean. And I'm pretty sure Netflix knows I'm sad and old because lately all of its recommendations for me are movies about WWII. 

I thought by 40 I would have my life figured out. Aren't 40's supposed to be fabulous? Be in a stable relationship, solid career laid down, supportive circle of friends, go through life with a sense of life and a heck of a lot more confidence than I have now. Well, there is no relationship. Lots of misses, and not even a speck of hope on the horizon. I'm unemployed. My friend group has significantly narrowed down to just a few. I wear a lot of loose, dark clothing to hide the many rolls I've acquired, and if this narrative of mine hasn't been a beacon of despair then I don't know how it could get any worse. What do I have to show for living half my life? I don't know who I am, and shouldn't I have figured that out by now. Oh, and no children. Healthcare is laughing in my face at that prospect because even if I did get pregnant by some divine miracle, I would be considered geriatric. I'm re-reading that last word and I'm laugh-crying. And would I even want to bring a child into this world that is on fire? It seems like there's a shooting every week, innocent children are gunned down, schools aren't safe, grocery stores aren't safe, babies can't be fed because there isn't enough formula on the shelves, wars are going on, and reproductive rights are threatened. If my 30s were fearless, are my 40's fearful?

The fear is pervasive. When the pandemic first hit in early 2020, I was so scared to go into work. I was so scared of getting infected and being sick alone and dying alone. The only silver lining to being alone at that time was that I didn't have to worry about infecting someone living with me. After reading about Ahmaud Arbery's murder, I was afraid to leave my house. I used to go for walks in my neighborhood, but I was afraid that me as a single woman of color would be attacked in my predominantly caucasian neighborhood. A few weeks later, I was driving home and turned onto my street. I slowed down because some of the kids were playing street hockey in the middle of the road. I waited for them to move the net and stand safely on the sidewalk, and then as I slowly drove past them I made eye contact with on the of the kids, a boy who couldn't have been more than 10 years old, and he picked up his hockey stick holding it like a gun and aimed it at me pretending to shoot me. I could hear the shooting sounds he was making with his mouth, his eyes locked on me as his target. 

I'm going to write everyday until I turn 40, and hopefully after that. Maybe writing everyday will clear out my head, help me make sense of things. Or maybe this will be the ravings of a mid-life crisis.