Queen For A Day

I just turned forty.

I’m not sure how I feel about this.

Indeed, how is one ‘supposed’ to feel at such a supposedly pivotal point in life? Overjoyed? Disgruntled? Or just relieved that you can still pee in the right place and the dementia hasn’t set in yet?

Maybe I should be more into it, maybe I should try harder, but this whole transition to middle age has left me rather nonplussed if I’m honest. I didn’t even bother with a party. No cake, no candles, no otherworldly amount of alcohol that would make even Keith Richards raise an eyebrow. Although, to be fair, most of my friends are still happily ensconced in the Shaky Aisles of New Zealand and at NZ$1200 a pop, I doubt, short of tickets in the post, that any of them would have accepted the invite anyway.

I opted instead for a cocktail or two and sushi with my significant other - a man who it must be said did an exceptional job on the gift front with Queen + Adam Lambert tickets, jewellery and my pride and joy, a singing stubbie holder for the Aussie AFL team the Fremantle Dockers. The former elicited squeals of delight, the latter also elicited squeals of delight and, well, the ring was a damn fine effort too. I mean what more does a girl need? With this I was truly content.

But I can’t help thinking I should have wanted to do something more: Scale Everest perhaps, run a marathon, or at the very least have gotten another tattoo.

But no. I settled, instead, for the annual Facebook celebrity status where birthday wishes come flying at you from people you haven’t heard from since probably last birthday and a rigorous game of Rummiking. Which I won by the way.

I wonder if Adam Lambert felt any of this upon entering his thirties. I bet he had a party; gold lame and glitter flying around, hor dourves in the shape of little microphones, Chianti for all and Jameson’s Irish Whiskey for the inside few.

Really, I surreptitiously slid rather than boldly stampeded from my dirty thirties into my naughty forties; stealthily ambushed the next decade like it was a rogue elephant, albeit a quite one, in the corner of my room. This is not necessarily a bad thing. But. Shouldn't I feel something more momentous about all of this, more exhilarating even? Shouldn't I feel more appreciative of the moment? With all the diseases, natural disasters, political and religious unrest and idiot drivers in the world today, it’s quite the achievement just to have made it this far! Shouldn't I be smelling a new sweetness in the air? Smiling at small children more? Or be bursting to donate time to the elderly and take an interest in politics?

I'm just not feeling it eh.

No, I think I will just have to accept the fact that I simply don’t give a toss about the aging process, or marking particular increments thereof. Don’t get me wrong, I am a jolly grateful type of lass, but all this contemplation and analysis has hardly triggered the endorphin response. Ultimately, I doubt I will remember my fortieth birthday as an epiphany generating day of wonder. Instead, I feel, it will be fondly looked back upon for its Japanese cuisine, exquisite company and a sequinned guy wearing heels that would have me on my ass in five seconds.

And another one bites the dust.

Cheers!