So This Is 41.

I recently passed the halfway point of my 41st year and am rapidly sliding down the slope to 42.  When I was in my 30's, I completely dreaded my 40's.  Let's be honest, the "experts" don't exactly paint a pretty picture of what to expect.  According to them, get ready for a decrease in eyesight, hearing, and height, an increase in fatigue and grey hair, as well as wrinkles, and thanks to a screeching halt in our metabolism, we should prepare ourselves for the middle-age spread, which is the sudden widening of everything...except our cleavage which mysteriously closes in to resemble less of a sexy V and more of a puckered butt crack.

But here's my thought on the matter.  I think they're wrong, and as long as my sense of denial is stronger than my ever decreasing hearing, I'm right.

Granted, it's an awkward phase of life when your period is 5 days late and you're unsure whether you're pregnant or menopausal until your husband finally tells you to go buy a test. 
FYI; they don't sell home menopause tests.  If I can spare even one person the humiliation of asking Ryan at Rite Aide, my job here is done.

Okay, so there are some things you can't fight, but there are some things you can.  Let's not take this aging process lying down.  We're only as old as we allow ourselves to act. 

So each time one of my daughters brings home her new cheerleading uniform, I  put on mine from 1989 and enforce mandatory Mother/Daughter cheer photos, because 1.  I know my daughters love it and 2.  Once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader.

Speaking of the inner cheer girl, I was recently presented with an opportunity to become a Zumba instructor.  My repressed cheerleader sprang to the surface and (loudly) agreed (while jumping up and down and clapping) before my 41 year old insecurities...and body...had a chance to think it through. 

My point?  Let's all stop acting our age and start deciding that if God opens a door, we're gonna boldly run through it...possibly dressed in an old cheerleading uniform. 

Sure, physically I might be greying, fatiguing, spreading and puckering, but dag on it, I'm not gonna let that stop me from having fun.  I'll either go down dancing my zebra-striped-spandexed-butt off, stuck in the mud of a Warrior Dash or maybe face planting in the sand during volleyball tournaments, as happened 2 weeks ago when a sudden storm blew in and I was hit in the back of the head with a flying gazebo. 

That had nothing to do with my age.  I just didn't see the damn thing coming.  But before you blame that on decreased sight, when I opened my sand crusted eyes I clearly saw my 41 year old boob flopped out of my tank top and lying completely exposed in the sand like a dead fish.

Trust me.  My eyesight is fine.  Unfortunately.

I do this for them, really.