William Shakespeare once asked,
What in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
This week, I found myself asking,
What’s in an age? A rose by any other age, especially my age, would probably be dead.
On Thursday, I turned forty. Now, I didn’t expect it to be that big of a deal. People kept telling me that I was in the prime of my life, that my best years were ahead of me, and that “forty is the new thirty!” (whatever that means.)
From the outset, though, I knew that forty was not going to be just another birthday. As I was pulling out of my driveway, I see that one side of our lawn was littered with plastic forks, all pointing tines up. At first, I had no idea what this message written in white plastic might mean. Then it occurred to me: I’m forty. Stick a fork in me. I’m done.
As I pulled out even further, I saw that someone taped a sign to the side of our house: “Lordy, lordy, look whose 40!” Yeah, this day was shaping up to be really swell!
When I got to school, I was greeted by black balloons over my office door. I noticed that Mrs. Kennedy was dressed all in black. So was Mrs. Parker. And too, Mrs. Pimlott. As I walked down the hall to the teacher’s work room, I noticed that almost all the staff were dressed in black, and once there, I was surrounded my more black than can be found at your average funeral.
The room was decorated in an assortment of black signs with messages like, “If you were a car, you’d be an antique!” and “If you were a horse, they’d have shot you by now,” and my favorite, “You’re living in the metallic age: Gold teeth, silver hair, and a lead bottom.”
How’d did they ever find out that I have gold teeth?
Seriously, my wonderful staff did make me feel very special on my birthday. So much attention had been given to making me feel like I had one foot in the grave, I could only assume one of two things: they either were trying as hard as they could to get my other foot in there, or they really, really loved me. I am going with the second possibility.
I always assumed that the “black” birthday was for one’s fiftieth. I don’t know if forty is the “new anything” but I do know that I feel fine, and have every expectation of reaching the next milestone. Black balloons just seemed bit premature.
So I asked Mrs. Kennedy (who I later learned might possess useful information about the “fork incident”) that if they used all the death references now when I turned forty, what could I possibly expect when I turned fifty.
Without missing a beat, she looked me in the eye and said,
Depends.
I can hardly wait.
I want to say thank you everyone for throwing me the best birthday ever. I’ll be talking and laughing about this one for at least the next ten years. And for those who might have taken the whole “Older than dirt” thing a little too seriously, quit your worrying. I plan to be around for a long, long time.
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