The Truth About Being 40-Something

Okay bear with me. After all, this is something of a departure from my normal blog posts. But hey, I normally blog about travel and theatre, and the past year has been sadly lacking in both thanks to a certain virus. So I’m going to dig down and get personal. And tell you all about what it’s like being 40-something.

Feel free to click away now. I have a great post on alpaca walking here if that’s more your bag. Or stick around. You might learn something.

Being 40-something means different contraception choices

I’d been on the pill for 25 years. I had absolutely no idea what my natural hormone baseline was. And then a few weird things started happening (TMI to give you, even in this post) so I decided to come off the pill for a while. That was almost 12 months ago. We’re still to decide on the best long-term contraception choice but I’m not keen on pumping any more hormones into my body for now.

…and different periods

My periods on the pill have always been as regular as clockwork. And since switching to a progesterone only pill in 2018, they stopped altogether. So it’s something of a shock to now find Auntie Flo creeping up on me at odd times. She visits about every 21 days at the moment, although thankfully she doesn’t stay long. Clearly my ovaries are now producing all the eggs that I’ve denied them all these years. I feel like a battery hen. At least my switch to reusable sanitary products has lessened my environmental impact (and they’re a lot more comfortable too).

Being 40-something means perimenopause

What the holy crap is this? I thought you got to 50-something, had a few hot flushes and then your baby-making days were behind you. No-one told me this was a long, slow, gradual process which means that every ache, pain, itch, bad mood, good mood, low libido, high libido etc. is chalked up to declining oestrogen levels. It’s like puberty in reverse.

Having taken a long list of random things that were wrong with me to the doctor, I was grateful to be presented with the possibility that I may be experiencing the early onset of perimenopause. Or pre-perimenopause. Or periperimenopause. Which I think I’ve seen on the menu at Nando’s.

Being 40-something means grey hairs. And random hairs. Not always on my head

There it is. Hold my head in a certain pose. Backlit by the sun’s rays pouring through the bedroom window. And, there like, a waving limb on a tree in the spring breeze, is my beard. Okay, it’s only one hair (or sometimes two) but it doesn’t belong on my face. Particularly as it’s white. Santa Claus beard white. Yet when I approach it, cautiously, tweezers in hand, it curls up against my face, like a particularly sleepy kitten. Meaning I have to jab all around it like a blind jouster, gouging holes in my chin, before getting a firm grip.

And where have my eyebrows gone?

Women grow radical with age. One day an army of gray-haired women may quietly take over the earth.

Gloria Steinham

Being 40-something means permanent resting bitch face

Not to brag, but I’ve been blessed with pretty good skin. I have one mammoth chin spot that erupts every so often (always in the same place, I reckon it has roots there). But I notice my face getting puffier and puffier. Particularly around the mouth. Which makes my mouth look a little downturned. Permanent resting bitch face. And let’s not talk about my upper lip crease which I always try and (badly) edit out of photos of myself. See that blob above my lip? That used to be a crevasse the size of the Grand Canyon.

Being 40-something means being forgetful

Sorry, where was I going with this?

But. Being 40-something’s not all bad.

Woo-hoo, I’ve made it this far. Four whole decades (plus another three years for good luck). With a good lifestyle and good luck, I’ll see the same amount of years again. Wrinkles and stray hairs? They’re not a death sentence. They’re just one more thing to add to the story. Being 40-something means focusing on me and my loved ones, and not worrying that I’m not meeting the expectations of others. It means finding my own style. Even if it’s dubious at times. It means accepting I’ll always have hair that grows in a triangle shape. And my front teeth will always stick out slightly. And least they’re are all my own. For now.

I don’t need to know what’s in the charts. Because everyone knows that the best music was in the 80s and 90s right? I wouldn’t know Dua Lipa if she slapped me in the face. But I still know every word to Bananarama’s “Love In The First Degree”. Billie Eilish? The last Billie who was relevant to me was Billie Piper. Honey To The Bee was a tune. Don’t @ me.

And guess who else is in their forties? Venus Williams. Reese Witherspoon. Christina Aguilera. Angeline Jolie. Cameron Diaz. All of the Spice Girls. Kristen Bell. Lauren Laverne. Sarah Michelle Gellar. Yes, I’m the same age as Buffy. I bet we could both still slay a vampire or two. Although I’d probably need a little rest afterwards.

Life really does begin at 40. Up until then, you are just doing research

Carl Jung