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My whole life, I looked forward to turning 40. I don’t know why, I just always did. Now I’m here and it doesn’t seem possible.

I was in the doctor’s office today getting some tests done and the woman asked for my age. I heard the word come of out my mouth, but it seemed like someone else said it: “Forty.”

Forty.

So succinct. So poignant. Not the flourish and energy of “Twenty-Two”, nor the slightly interesting, lived a bit age of “Thirty-Six”. No, this is 40. In highway speed, 40 is safe; not the express way 65 and not the school zone 15 – somewhere in the middle is 40.

I’ve got hair that I'm leaving uncolored, now turning slightly gray – not quite blonde, not quite silver. My eyes aren’t working as well as they used to, my hands keep dropping things for some bizarre reason and my weight is even more difficult to manage than it has been all my life.

And yet, I’m not sure what 40 means really. I’m not old. Far from it – in fact, I hope I’m one of those people who never really get old… I will age, but if I can just keep moving, I’ll never really get old. I don’t even know what 40 looks like anymore, not even on me. You reach a point in your life where you can’t really see yourself clearly, with honest eyes. Its one reason people hate to see themselves in photographs. They can't bear to see what the camera (and everyone else) sees.

I'm working on seeing what Mr. Crab Claw sees. I have a collection of photos over the past 12 months or so that he has taken of me. Mostly candid, cell phone shots – rarely do I pose for him. I want to work on a new piece, in my signature collage style that I love, with another self-portrait.

Really looking at yourself is strange, difficult to do and, maybe its just plain weird. But, I’m going to work on this and probably just call it 40. I can see the piece – it will most likely be part of the marriage project Crab Claw and I have been working on. Not really sure… I just know it is (and I am) a work in progress.

via Simply Me: 40?.