The Big 4-0

 “Did you feel any older when you got up this morning?”

“That’s a lot of spankin’s!”

“About ready to go to college and go and get a job?”

Remember all of those ridiculous things your grandpa would say to you on your birthday every year of your childhood?

Remember when hitting ‘double-digits’ was a BIG deal?

Remember devouring loads of cake without worrying about the amount of sugar and calories in it?

Remember looking forward to your sleepover party so that you could try to stay up all night?

I celebrated my birthday this past week; the “Big 4-0”.

Well Gramps, every morning when I wake up I feel older… and older and older and older… 

I think a “spankin” might dislocate my back, and I’m twice the age of the typical college student.  Cake and I have a much more complicated relationship these days, and sometimes I can barely survive an all-day-er, let alone an all-night-er.  

I guess that’s what four decades of life will do to you.  

I’m faced with a different set of questions these days, usually centered around the idea of the “mid-life crisis”, or with a focus on the end-of-life that approaches..

“Are you saving for retirement?”

“It’s never too early to prepare your will, have you done that?”

Kind-hearted people tell me that I’m “only as old as [I] feel” and that I “don’t look a day over 29”.  

I love the implications that I might be “too old” for certain things these days.  

It got me thinking about and wondering what all is on that “too old for” list now.  

Clearly, crying is not one of them.  Backbends are.  

Eating a tub of ice cream: No

Eating a tub of ice cream without regret: Yes

Single-vision lenses: No

Hearing the “mosquito noise”: Yes

High heels: Not really.

Staying up late: Yes

Retail therapy with the girls: No way!

Wearing that: Yes (according to my kids, anyway)

Saying “When I grow up I want to.___”: Yes, but No, but Yes

Playing in the Ball-Pit: Apparently

Trying new things: Dang, I hope not… 

The truth is, 40 didn’t really bother me.  I kind of expected it to, it is a big deal, just not in any way that makes me unhappy or afraid, I guess.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not particularly excited about my wrinkles and sagging skin, chronic lower back pain, or the fact that I snap, crackle and pop worse than the cereal these days.  Getting older kinda stinks.  I just think it’s better than the alternative for now. 

There are all kinds of creative analogies and metaphors out there to help people understand the limitations of their time - generally with the purpose of encouraging them to use it wisely.  

There is the life clock metaphor that basically points out where you are on the clock based on an average lifespan.  The average American woman lives 77.2 years.  Spread that over the 24 hours in a day, and each minute of the day is equal to 19.5 days.  At 40 years old I am currently at 12:28 p.m. on my life clock. 

There is a picture that utilizes rice, representing each day with one grain.  An average American female life of 28,197 days works out to about 3.5 cups of rice.  At 40, I have used up 1.7 cups of my rice, and have only 1.6 left to go, according to this model.

But, at the end of the day, we’re not guaranteed even the next one.  Or that night.  Or our next breath.  

We hear the phrase “living on borrowed time” to describe life after anything that nearly snuffed it out; as though death lent us more days since that event which was meant to claim it, and we will have to somehow pay back the overdraw in the end. This implies that he, or fate, or the universe, or something larger than ourselves guaranteed us a set amount of time in the first place.  Spoiler alert: It does not.

Every single day that we live and breathe we do so out of God’s good grace and mercy.  We didn’t cause our own existence, we don’t have nearly as much control over it as we think, and -sooner or later - it will end with or without our permission.  We don’t “own” the days we have, and cannot “borrow” any more. 

We live on GIFTED time.  Undeserved, and often underappreciated, freely and lovingly given, but undoubtedly limited on this rock.  Eternal, though, beyond it.  That could be very good news, or very bad; headed up or down, we are un-ending.  Such is the condition of the human soul.  Not, so much, its earthy vessel. 

Because that’s what I am here on earth.  A pitcher for a purpose.  And with an expiration date.

My time, too, can borrow this metaphor.  Like a pot or pitcher, it has a limit on what it can hold.  So the better question is not “how much time do I have left” but rather “what is the time that I have currently holding?”  No one blames a teacup for being too small to contain the pond but even cats and kids know that a big empty box is being wasted, and immediately seek to fill it, usually with themselves. 

While the clock and rice analogies above are enlightening, they mean precious little in reality.  For us, the day might end at 2:00 p.m. or the rice bag might have a leak that we’re unaware of.  Once we realize this it can cause a panicked life of over-cramming our days, or precious time wasted trying to postpone the inevitable, or it can lead to a self-indulgent lifestyle of merriment without meaning or objective.  

There is a better option, I think.  It’s that of gratitude and purpose.

In 40 years I have learned, loved, rejoiced and anguished.  My years have been filled with the love of family and friends; with dates, achievements, a wedding, four beautiful children, travels, pets, manic Mondays and pajama-clad Saturdays, pizza nights and softball games, worship songs and movie nights, victories and learning moments and so much goodness.  Happy goodness and hardship goodness, because, after all these years, I can finally see how the trials have shaped and grown me; how they’ve shifted my perspective and proven my reliance on God to my humbled self.  

I would be lying to you if I told you that I didn’t have regrets - I definitely do.  Usually they camp out in the safe recess of my brain and bide their time until some anxious night when I really need sleep, and then they ambush me like a battalion of memory goblins and run me through the torments of embarrassment like paper through a shredder until I’m not only reminded that I’m ‘made of dust and to dust will return’, but further find myself wishing I could disguise myself with the dust and just never show my face again.  Then they crawl back to their corner and wait for the next opportunity, because unlike my paper-shredded emotions they are unscathed by the encounter and remain ready to humble me again.  

I have regrets.  But even they only serve to further point to that which I should be grateful for.  

I also have complaints.  Whether in long rants about politics, useless gripes about the un-ending nature of housework, or the momentary groan that follows the morning snap-crackle-pop, I complain too much for someone with so much to be thankful for, especially on the days after a hard workout.  On those days I might even entertain a longing for green pastures and quiet waters.  But after the sound effects subside, my feet hit the floor for another day that I’ve been given; gifted hours to spend how I choose. 

So, yes, I (we) have started saving for retirement, and put some thought into our will.  If I’m only as old as I “feel”, then I’m somewhere between 16 and 85, depending on the day, and I know that I look older than 29, but thanks. 😏  

At the end of the day, though, I’m thankful for it.  And the 14,610 before it, give or take.  I’m not offering up praises for the gray hairs or the receding gums.  I just feel like they’re a small price to pay for years and years and years and years of blessings.