In the days of my youth, people who were 40 were old. Not ancient or elderly or antique, mind you, but they were of an age that hardly resembled anything of zest.

My father was 40 once, and he was always old. My mother was 40 once, and she became old, too. I thought of fortysomethings as people not young enough to be thirtysomethings, which meant they weren’t fascinating enough to have television shows done about them. Fortysomethings began to become bald (on the head) and to portrude (at the belly) and to creak (at the knees) when they tried to act as if they were still twentysomething, which most do.

Like being 13, being 40 is an awkward age.

Fortysomethings were, in my mind, one step below people who were 50, and that — when you’re a teen or just out of college — is nothing more than the age of Geritol and recurring thoughts of retirement.

All I’ve ever known about being 40 was that I didn’t want to be 40.

Well, I need to let you in on a little secret…I’m now 40.

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