So my husband turned 40 last week and he reckons it's been a bit of a shock. Part of it might have been the fact that his muscles ached from some un-practiced-for sporting activity, but part of it is also the very real fact that he has actually reached Middle Age.
My 40th is ten months away. And yes, I know it's just a date. And yes, I know I could just as easily die tomorrow as when I'm 92, just to pick a random age, but it is a marker and I'm not looking forward to it showing me that I will be maybe/approximately/potentially halfway through my life in July next year.
If I happened to die tomorrow I would be terribly disappointed. Not just because of my children and my family, but because I have very big plans for the next decade. I'm sure you can figure out what they are. They involve a whole lot of books with my name on them sitting on library shelves and being eagerly grabbed by young teen girls.
I've got ten months to get a head start on my next decade so I've made some schedules for what I'd like to do this term to kick off.
40, here we come.