On Turning Thirty-Eight

When my husband, Dan, turned thirty-eight in April, he seemed a little pensive the next day. (I would say "quiet," but those of you who know Dan would wonder how he could get much quieter.)

"Are you sad because you're getting older?" I asked, "Because you're coming to terms with your mortality? Because you can't refer to yourself as being in your mid-thirties anymore?"

I realize now that I probably wasn't helping the situation. 

Then we went mountain biking, and he cheered up.

Last weekend, it was my turn. I remember writing a blog post when I turned thirty like that was some kind of milestone. But now I just wonder where those eight years went.  

As it turned out, both of us spent our thirty-eighth birthdays mountain biking. As you can see below, I rode on three consecutive days the weekend of my birthday.

Maybe Dan and I were trying to prove something. Would most late thirty-somethings be able to do this?

Actually . . . probably. Mountain biking is kind of a big deal in Idaho, and lots of people of all ages ride the trails around here.

Over the past eight years (that I am not exactly sure happened), my journey closer to forty looks like this: I have developed a click in my left knee. I have started dyeing my hair (not for fun, to get rid of the gray). I have an occasional popping in my right shoulder and a tightness in my hamstring. I have been diagnosed with asthma and (hereditary) high cholesterol. And my metabolism is shit.

And I am a healthier-than-most-people-my-age woman.

By all accounts, this is just going to get worse because I am not that old yet.

An older (by a couple of years) friend once told me, "I thought it would be a gradual decline, with a few plateaus here and there. But, nope. When I turned forty, it was like this," and he motioned with his hand in a sharp descent toward the floor.

According to one article, old age doesn't happen until after age fifty-eight, so I've still got a ways to go. And I am sure I will have a whole new set of ailments to discuss in two years when I turn forty. But I'm not complaining . . . yet . . . just observing.

Besides, would I want to go backwards in age, give up everything I've experienced and learned over the past eight years (that I am not exactly sure happened)?

Nah. 

Still looking young (and alive) after three days of mountain biking

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