40. Whattaya know.

What half drunk, whiny-ass attention whore wrote that post yesterday?

It couldn't have been me as I am perfect in every way.

So, as it turns out 40 doesn't feel any different than 39. Not a bit. I still have bags under my eyes and a disturbing amount of gray in my hair. I still love and am loved by my wonderful family and friends. I still play with yarn and dig in the dirt every chance I get. A fat, furry little black and white kitten and his fat old tabby striped sister both still purred for me this morning. A man I adore whispered that he loved me using the endearing nickname he gave me 11 years ago. I still miss my boy. I still find peace in the sound of the birds singing on a spring morning. I'm still neurotic with a dash of OCD. I'm still shy but experienced enough to hide it well. I still find Peter Boyle's song and dance number in Young Frankenstein fall-off-the-couch funny, even though My Beloved doesn't get it. I still wish I didn't have a busted uterus. I still secretly think that if someone important heard me singing in the shower or in my car I'd get a recording contract like that. I still like pancakes on Sunday morning. Orange and red autumn leaves still take my breath away. I still eat chocolate chips when I've run out of proper chocolate. And speaking of chocolate, sometimes I still have dessert after breakfast.

I'm not a girl anymore. The 30s beat that out of me. Soundly.

But I'm still here.

And so yeah, 40's not so bad. Not at all.