Reflections on Impending Hagittude | Why My 40s Have Been The Best Decade Yet

I’ve got a birthday coming up.

I’ll be 43.

And as I venture deeper and deeper into the wild waters of my 40s, I’m thinking of the things I wish I’d known sooner.

My 40th was always something I feared. If you’re in your 30s and a woman, you’ll know what I’m talking about. 

If you’re in your 20s you probably think I’m ancient.

If you’re in your 70s you probably want to slap me.

For a long time, I was sure that 40 was the age at which I would become instantly old and by extension terribly unattractive. Any dreams that hadn’t been realised would flutter away into the land of the never never, and my sex life would disintegrate to dust.

So, by the time I hit the checkpoint of my 39th birthday, I was terrified. 

Lines had already started to appear on my skin. My hair had begrudgingly accepted some grey intruders. And I’d been told by the women who had gone before me that during the next decade Mother Nature would set me on fire.

It’s no wonder I was shitting myself.

With the deadline of doom approaching, I decided to make my 40th birthday a quiet affair. I planned a weekend away with my best friend. ‘I just want it to be me and you,’ I said. No pressure, no party, no performance. 

We booked an apartment in Edinburgh, one of my favourite places on earth.

After a short flight and a slog through the city past multiple men playing bagpipes, and shop windows adorned with tartan, we settled into our cosy apartment. 

It was the eve of my 40th birthday. 

And while she made sure the Champagne was chilled, I realised something.

I didn’t feel afraid. 

While reclining on what was perhaps the world’s most comfortable sofa, I turned to my best friend in the world and said, ‘I’m becoming a woman tomorrow’.

I’d spent so long trying to stall, being frightened of what I was about to lose, that I hadn’t anticipated what I might gain.

There was a shedding of girlhood, yes. But with that came a shedding of pressure, of expectation. 

As I entered a decade that promised to render me no longer shaggable, I could finally be myself. 

I could stop dumbing down my intelligence to appear more attractive. Of playing weak so that the men around me could feel strong (I know, cringe).

(Side note: don’t worry, it turns out you’re shaggable until you die. Fear lies)

It certainly helped that when I looked around at my life, I was happy. 

Not entirely fulfilled, and with dreams still yet to be realised. But, happy. 

I had financial independence, friends, and a room of my own. (My dog Pluto came a little later).

I’ve also been a writer forever, but a secret one. This decade has been the one where I finally had the stones to call myself a copywriter. 

Out Loud. In front of people. 

There’s still lots to get on with. Even more so now that I’ve managed to sift through my dreams and sort my own from the ones that have been foisted upon me by well meaning people who thought theirs was the only way.

And I do still occasionally remember the husband I forgot to find. 

Like something I put on a list somewhere. A list I keep forgetting to check.

Tuesday - Find husband

Second husband to be exact. The first is still around in the form of an excellent friend who just so happens to have seen me naked and has no desire whatsoever to repeat the experience. 

It’s fair to say I learned the true meaning of love quite late in life. 

That intoxicating thing I felt when I was younger. That frantic, heady, spinning, was not love. 

It was yearning. It was lust. At times it was a desperate clinging screech. But it was never love.

It took me a long time to figure out that love is a full appreciation and acceptance of another person. Two souls gradually revealing themselves and finding themselves safe, and cherished in their imperfections.

I imagine now that if I ever do stumble upon a suitable man I might know what to do with him this time.

He might spot me too.

Because I am more myself than I’ve ever been. 

That girl who stood at the altar in a wedding dress at the tender age of 29 didn’t have a clue what she was doing. She was lost, and she knew it. Perhaps that’s why she clung so fiercely to the ritual.

I dread to think what my 60 year old self will think of the current version of me, assuming I get there. 

The mistakes I don’t know I’m making. The fiercely held beliefs that will no doubt change with experience. I wonder what she’ll be proud of.

I wish I could guess her regrets. 

But one thing’s for sure. 

Things have only gotten better with each decade so far. 

I mean, yeah, there have been some ugly times and some really, really ugly times. But I can honestly say each one came with a lesson that made everything else better. 

It’s wanky but it’s true.

My biggest regret is that I spent so much time missing the miracle, worrying about what was coming next. (That, and not letting Darren Jenkins touch my boobs at the back of the football stand when we were 16). 

So, genuinely, honestly, for the love of all that is sacred, believe me when I say the view is great up here. 

Yes, you lose things. But you gain things too. A truer version of yourself. New experiences. An appreciation for everything that was there along. 

And hopefully, a little bit of wisdom. (Just a bit, mind.)

Trying to clutch onto things just hurts you and makes you tired.

Life is constantly moving, constantly changing.

And that’s exactly how it should be.