Today is my 40th birthday. It’s weird! The pandemic skip feels very real. I’ve always been a little bit bad at knowing how old I am — I was 17 until I was 23. I was 23 until I was 30. I was 30 until I was 37. Then, something-something–global chaos. Now I am 40.

But I won’t forget this one; it’s my pirate year.

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In honor of my milestone birthday, I’m inviting readers to donate to your local abortion fund or the Repro Legal Defense Fund. Post a comment here letting me know so I can show you some appreciation!

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When I talked to my (boomer) mom this weekend, she asked if 40th birthdays are still ~ a thing ~ like they were in her day, the big over-the-hill, gravestone-on-your-birthday-card celebration. I don’t think so; it seems cruel to razz elder millennials about having one foot in the grave when most of us are worse off than our parents were at 40 by a lot of important measures.

I’ve always carried around a lot of existential dread; this birthday hasn’t really exacerbated it any more than usual. Instead, I’ve been quietly spooked by the unsettling realization that the more I live and learn, the less I really know for sure.

To reassure myself, I made a very short list of things I do know.

• Having children is not for me. I have known this my entire life; the idea simply never appealed to me. Not because kids seemed expensive or a hassle or I dislike them, I just … didn’t care about having them. The way any given person might not be interested in skydiving or mid-century design or ham and pineapple pizza. Not my thing. I have been repeatedly assured that this would, at some point, change — to the point that I was kind of interested in welcoming the phenomenon. What would it be like for the baby alarm to go off and have my body kick in and tell me this thing I had always thought was true … was not actually true? But the baby alarm has not gone off. Thankfully, the older I get, the less people feel called to tell me what I should do with my own reproductive capacity, though they’re more likely to assume that I’m already a parent. (Don’t do this to strangers, please!)
• A cheap and easy skin care routine is worth it. I’ve always worn moisturizer with SPF, but I was in my early 30s before I really got a true skincare routine, because I found the prospect deeply intimidating. It doesn’t need to be! In the morning, literally just put on some Cerave vitamin C serum followed by a rotating cast of drug store moisturizers with SPF 25 or more (I like No. 7 and Oil of Olay stuff best). At night, I cleanse with whatever, then apply my customized Curology serum along and dob on some Roc eye cream and a good, glorpy moisturizer. Every third night, I use a night-time moisturizer with more retinol, like this stuff. That’s it! My skin looks great. Sometimes I still get carded.
• I’ll always be fat. Early in the pandemic, when it became clear he wasn’t going back to a gym any time soon, my husband bought a Peloton. I grudgingly began using just to see what the fuss was about. Turns out: I love the thing. I have exercised more, and more regularly, in the last three years than in the 37 years preceding. I have lost: none weight. But I am strong and I have a lot of energy and a lot of opinions about Peloton instructors. Embracing the fact that my body is never going to be thin has been an absolute fucking delight. Just incredibly freeing. I’m just going to do what a fucking want! Because I just look this way! And I look great! I am comfortable and happy and just buy shit that fits and throw away stuff that doesn’t and none of it is a commentary on who I was before or who I will be in the future or my value as a person.
• I am bad at gifting and that is never going to change. I don’t know what you want and also I forgot to buy it for you. If I did get you something, I probably stuck it in my closet because it was not the exact day of whatever particular gift exchange, and now it is lost to the sands of time. If I ever promise to make or give you something, bury that knowledge at the bottom of your brain and set it on fire.
• I have the capacity to add no more than two dozen songs to my regular listening repertoire annually. There’s a lot of exciting, innovative music coming out these days! I cannot be bothered to listen to it. I still have that one Phoenix record from 2004 playing on repeat. It makes me happy and I am reassured by the knowledge that I am not going to waste three minutes aging my crusty bones to a bad new song. Am I undoubtedly missing out on a lot of great new tunes that could bring joy and novelty to my sad, elder millennial life? Yes. I don’t care. This Phoenix record is so good. I’m going to turn it on again.
• Even reading a pretty bad book is almost always worthwhile. I know what you’re thinking: Andrea, you won’t spend three minutes listening to a new song, but you’ll sacrifice precious hours to reading, which necessarily involves more of a time investment on stuff that could ultimately be a disappointment? I don’t know what to tell you. I contain multitudes.

This isn’t an exhaustive list, but it might be close. It gives me a real chuckle that I’m sitting here blogging — indeed, writing something of a listicle — on my 40th birthday, which is basically what I was doing on my 30th birthday, which is basically what I was doing on my 20th birthday, and what I was pretty close to doing on my 10th birthday. The more things change, etc.

I’m headed to London this weekend, so you won’t hear from me again for a couple of weeks. Be good, y’all!

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