When Did Forty Become Young?

Poor Pig. After only a decade of me calling him an old fart and telling him how archaic he is, he turned forty. My long-suffering husband wanted nothing more than a quiet day at home with the family, preferably without jokes involving balding, old age, memory loss, or prune juice. Given how long I have been picking on him for how old he is, I'd like to think he was pleasantly surprised at my sudden change of mind on this subject.

Truth be told, I woke up this morning feeling quite panicked that my husband, who is a few years older than I am, hit the big four-oh. At thirty, I could tease him about being an old fuddy duddy because he clearly was not one. At thirty-five, I could torment him about having such a youthful wife while he was older than dirt. At thirty-nine, I'm sure I drove him to distraction with my conjuring up old fart jokes left and right. At forty, I am suddenly freaked out that my young husband reached a number that I used to think was in Methuselah's age range. All of a sudden, forty went from being ancient to being babyish. Or maybe it's just me being the baby here.

The worst part about having a husband who is forty is knowing that I probably look older than he does, darn that man. My dark brown hair eagerly showcases every single, rapidly multiplying white hair that sprouts on my head. My wrinkles are starting to develop wrinkles. Things that never concerned me before, such as muscle tone, age spots, and gravity-induced sagging are now very real concerns for me. Darling Pig, on the other hand, has yet to grow one single, solitary gray hair. I ought to know. I cut his hair, and I've looked. His skin is smooth and unblemished by wrinkles that should, by all accounts, be digging vicious trenches across his features even now as I type this. If gravity is stretching out his form, he has yet to admit it. I am starting to worry that people think my almost-five-years-older husband is actually younger than I am. There are few things quite as unsettling as people accusing you of robbing the cradle when you are the younger party.

Because I still perceive my husband as being quite young, I am at a loss at how to deal with this whole forty thing. Nevermind that I have, and always will, claim to be a hundred forty-eight years old myself. That's an obvious lie, but I can often forget my actual age and remain blissful in my ignorance. Forty is not a number that allows for such delusions. And up until very recently, I was convinced that forty was some far off old age that I could simply ignore.

I think I finally understand why Baby Boomers still consider themselves to be middle aged. This whole age thing just creeps up on a person.

If forty is still so young, I suppose fifty is not that much older either. That pushes sixty down to seeming much younger than it used to also. Same with seventy, eighty, and ninety. It's funny how just changing one's perspective on aging suddenly makes everyone seem a whole decade younger. I am wondering how much more creeped out I am going to be when I realize just how young fifty is, too. It just might take me this whole decade to wrap my head around that idea. Oy.