Some how, I got so worked up about turning 40 last year that it never occurred to me that—barring unforeseen acts of God—I’d turn 41. This is perhaps the single most disturbing realization I’ve come to in, well, 41 years. In fact, I’m beginning to suspect that this is the age I will stop at and will simply refer to myself as 40 henceforth. Even when I’m 70.
It helps that I am in Seattle with Z, who had a bottle of champagne waiting on me when I arrived on New Year’s Eve, as well as a living room tricked out with all sorts of Christmas lights and garland that he put up before he went home for the holiday, just to please me. Our flights arrived at SEATAC within ten minutes of each other, and so far, everything about this trip has been smoother sailing than last year when he slept a day away and then I ended up in the ER. Except, you know, the part where we woke up New Year’s Eve at 12:03 a.m. because we both fell asleep before the stroke of midnight and also the part about how I’m no longer forty, but instead, in my forties, which seems like a whole different ball game.
On the bright side, the fireworks at the Space Needle were delayed, so we didn’t miss a thing.