41

Hey! What’s going on? I turned 41 on Tuesday.

41.

So, you know. There's that.

You know what I found the other day?

Check this out:

Don’t see it?

Maybe this will help:

That, my friends, is a gray hair, which I did not pluck because I will be dying it back into oblivion on Friday. I have another one, too.

In all seriousness, though, getting older doesn’t really bother me all that much, aside from the fact that if I happened to sit next to Ryan Gosling on a plane he probably wouldn’t consider asking me out, especially if one of my kids was throwing Cheerios at him. And also especially if my husband was there. But the whole scenario is unlikely, as I doubt Ryan Gosling flies Southwest.

Wait. What was I talking about?

Right. So the other day it was my birthday.

I spent the previous weekend in Las Vegas and I met a cool woman at the airport on the way home. She was drinking a chardonnay while some guy was trying to talk to her. I sat down on the only available stool, which was on the other side of the guy. He was several sheets to the wind, involving everyone in his conversation. He asked me if I would go see Rick Springfield in Nashville with him. The question was not about committing adultery, but about actually flying to Nashville for a Rick Springfield concert, which a couple he knew had actually done.

“I mean, would you do that?" he asked.

I had a lot of questions about the scenario, like who was paying and if the seats at the show were good. 

"I mean, you're the right age for it. Would you fly to Nashville to see Rick Springfield?” And, of course, I am the right age for it. I remember when Jesse's Girl was a hit on my transistor radio. Look it up, children. 

I lost interest in that whole conversation pretty fast, and the guy turned back to the woman with the chardonnay. She was beautiful, dark with long, wavy hair. She told him that she was going to Africa in two weeks.

“What for?” I asked.

“To ride my BMW motorbike off road,” she said, grinning wide. She said she'd bought it as a present to herself when she turned 50, and that she bikes or rides or whatever you call it in a club with a bunch of other people. She’s the only girl. Her teenage son thinks it's pretty awesome.

“What made you buy a motorcycle at age 50?” the guy asked her.

I answered before she could. “Because 50 is when women really become badass.”

Which I think is pretty true. The kids need less attention, maybe you have a little more money, some free time. You start to think about who you are beyond this. Perhaps you become a writer or Secretary of State, or you travel the globe or get involved with a drug cartel making methamphetimine. Or maybe you become a motorcycle-riding woman from Santa Fe whose teenage son isn’t afraid to be seen with her.

I began to collect my gear to catch my plane, the woman reached out to me and gave me a hug. It was like a popular senior transferring her cool factor onto a freshman.

On the flight home, I thought about what I liked about getting older. I like that if I want to do something, I do it. I like that if I don’t want to do something, I don’t do it and don’t feel obligated to lie about it. I feel like I appreciate what I have, so that I don’t waste energy or time on the things I don’t have. I feel like I can be proud of myself if I do something well and don't feel like I need to worry if someone else thinks it's bragging. 

And then the plane reached 10,000 feet and I watched a few episodes of Breaking Bad.

Anyway.

41.

And, as Dear Abby always said, it’s so much better than the alternative.