My turning forty I could just about handle. It took a bit of getting used to, but I quite liked it … eventually. It’s a whole different ball game when one’s younger siblings start to hit that mark, though, which the first of them did today. Er, yesterday now, actually. The youngest of we four girls is turning thirty-five by the end of the week, which is just as shocking. She’s the ever so responsible and mature mother of three girls now, but in my mind she will always be the wacky, ditzy, eighteen-year-old we all knew and loved. When she hits forty I’ll really feel like Methuselah. Our one and only brother is at the end of the line, after her, but somehow his birthdays never have the same impact. He’s ten and a half years younger than I, so we start new decades and half-decades the same year. Which might be why his milestones don’t register as much. I’m too busy trying to come to grips with my own!
I’ve never asked them how my birthdays and age look from their perspective. In their mind’s eye am I forever young, as they are in mine, or is the image closer to the one above? Perhaps it’s better that I don’t ask. 🙂