Facing 40 With an Eye on Damage Control

Throughout my life, I’ve been deeply committed to really bad ideas. In ninth grade, for example, I aggressively shaved my arms. Not my armpits--mind you--but my arms. Over the years, my ability to enthusiastically embrace really bad ideas has increased. So much so that on Nov. 21, I did something that will, without question, pave the way for my induction into the Really Bad Idea Hall of Fame. Specifically, I agreed to turn 40.

Why I agreed to this is still a mystery. It’s not as though I hadn’t been cautioned against it. For months I got unsolicited warnings from concerned females nationwide who had made this same mistake. These wonderfully supportive women, each of whom would be a most welcome addition to any organization dedicated to making people cry, clearly indicated that if I proceeded with this ill-advised plan, my life would, for all practical purposes, be 100% over.

But I refused to listen. Thankfully, my birthday was pleasant enough, particularly since I had the foresight to place several suicide-prevention hotlines on speed-dial. I devoted the majority of the day to assorted merriment: filing a civil suit against gravity; resisting the urge to randomly choke young, bouncy females; and consuming my entire birthday cake. With candles. While lit.

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Now that the initial shock of joining Club Big 4-0 has passed, I could not be more miserable. Something happens when you enter the 4-times-10 category. The clock strikes midnight, the beautiful ball gown is bagged, the glass slippers are gone, and you--along with the coach--are transformed into a sizable, unappealing, largely useless seasonal squash.

Men, on the other hand, have negotiated a far better deal. (Chances are, it’s part of a larger contract, one with numerous clauses that essentially read, “Anything that is generally unpleasant, excruciatingly painful or blatantly unfair is to be immediately Fed-Exed, ATTN: female population.”) In fact, a 40-year-old man is frequently referred to as only 40. For the average guy, turning 40 isn’t a big deal. No one sends them condolence cards, points them toward high structures suitable for leaping, or introduces them to the cosmetic benefits of botulism. Why bother? Men have absolutely no idea they’re aging. Rapidly.

I harbor no such delusions. I’m decidedly getting older. I am most definitely not getting better. At 39, I was fine. I didn’t think twice about putting on a skimpy sundress, snapping butterfly clips into my hair, slipping on a pair of chunky shoes, sliding on a toe ring and skipping out to greet the world. I freely used phrases such as “you rock.” I drove a Mustang convertible and unashamedly blasted tunes from bands with names like Baby Lemonade.

Now I’m just one near-menopausal mass of uncertainty. Is my skirt too short? Is my hair too long? Is frosted lipstick a faux pas? Tank tops are a definite wrong--right? Should I drive a sedan or SUV? Should I watch MTV or MSNBC?

There are, I’ve discovered, no midlife Cliffs Notes. I don’t want to fall victim to Cher syndrome and exhibit a complete lack of awareness of, and respect for, the physical limitations of Lycra. So I’m erring on the side of caution. I’ve chucked the short skirts, along with all garments that require the pushing up or sucking in of one or more bodily regions. The funky shoes are gone, as are the seismically unsafe stilettos. That leaves me with slippers and a loose-fitting, knee-length coat.

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While I can still exert some measure of control over the contents of my closet, the same can’t be said about my body. I now spend large portions of my day trying to locate my hips and waist, both of which are officially missing. The 10 to 15 extra pounds that I’ve been alternately losing and regaining for the past two decades have comfortably settled on my hips. The breasts and the butt, however, are constantly on the move, having most recently been sighted in the general vicinity of Paraguay.

Although my bod is gainfully employed as an especially disgusting “before” picture, at least my life has unfolded according to plan. A very bad plan. When I was little, I honestly believed I was destined for greatness--an award-winning career, a loving family, a 22-inch waist.

I was, in a word, wrong.

Of course, there is a great deal for which I am tremendously thankful. I would elaborate, but I must go now and vigorously exfoliate.

Carrie St. Michel is an L.A. based freelance writer and humorist.