The lead-up to my 40th birthday verged on the surreal. A week before The Day,
I had major gum surgery and, suddenly and literally, became long in the tooth -- something I thought applied only to hairy-chinned crones in fairy tales, not to still-youthful me.
When I looked at myself in the mirror immediately afterward, I was horrified. This wasn't me. This was some frightening, snaggle-toothed stranger.
I had become the epitome of my worst fears about aging.
"Being 40 was way, way older than 39"
But some birthdays can inspire that kind of irrationality. A.A. Milne partially illuminated the mystery of the passing years in Now We Are Six. You'd think turning five -- a nice, decimal number -- would be a Moment. But Milne was right; being six is a very long way from being five. And to me, being 40 was way, way older than 39. I finally understood Jack Benny's insistence on remaining an eternal 39-year-old -- it's one of those perfect ages. You're a certified grownup, but for some incalculable reason, you can still count yourself as young-ish in a way that, to my (and Jack's) mind, you simply can't once you're 40.
Meanwhile, Now I was 40 and I had a birthday party to prove it. Yes, despite my existential (and physical) shudders, I had one, thrown by dear friends who insisted we should mark the occasion, and who calmly and lovingly steamrollered over my neuroses (Me: "But life is over as I know it!" Them: "Oh, dear. But send us your guest list anyway"). Why had I agreed to this? I wondered, staggering away from the mirror. So everyone could witness my transformation into a witch? Titter over my imminent collapse? Sure, let's have everyone over to see what an overnight wreck I'd become.
With age comes wisdom
Of course, it wasn't like that at all. I wasn't supposed to drink because of my gums, but I figured Champagne was not only antibacterial but also an anesthetic. No one noticed my teeth -- my friends and I were all too busy carousing, just like we'd done when I was in my 30s, mere minutes before.
Next morning found me sitting in my local hospital's emerg, nursing the swollen ankle I'd forgotten I'd twisted while dancing the night away (turns out Champagne truly is an anesthetic). The 12-year-old-looking doctor told me briskly, "Nothing's broken, but I don't think it will ever heal properly."
What did he know? He was 12, and I was 40. I'd already figured my ankle would be OK (I was dancing again within a week). That's when I realized being 40 was indeed the stuff of fairy tales. My teeth might be long, but so was my experience. It seemed like a fairy-tale trade.
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