I turn forty later this month, and since the start of the year I’ve been turning thoughts about that over in my head, trying to come up with a funny, perceptive blog post about what it means to hit this milestone age.
But I’ve failed.
Perhaps that’s because my creativity is fairly dormant just now. I’ve been spending a lot more time on writing for work than I have for on writing for pleasure, and while I trust that my voice will come back eventually, it doesn’t currently feel like I have any great insights to share.
Or perhaps it’s because I quite genuinely don’t have any big feelings about turning forty. It doesn’t fill me with horror about ageing; but nor does it fill me with enthusiasm and excitement about reinventing myself over the next decade. I’m already enormously lucky to be living in a place that makes me happy, with people who make me happy, doing a job that makes me happy – I don’t have much need for a dramatic life change.
So, other than my GP using it as a reason to refer me for a veritable smorgasbord of tests and screenings over the coming months, I’m not sure that forty is going to be much different to any other birthday. Continue reading