Softly into 40s: Where’s the party?


An acquaintance recently turned 30 and fretted mildly about it. A mutual acquaintance and I chimed in immediately to reassure her that the thirties are by far the best decade. You finally know who you are – usually none of the anxiety and trying too hard to please others and finding your footing that shade your twenties. The mutual acquaintance and I are both on the threshold of 41. Neither of us felt one way or the other about turning 40, but somehow we’re both dreading 41 because it’s a nothing age.

I concocted a dream birthday party for 40 – maybe, despite not being a party person, I would invite everyone from all spheres of my life (Seattle, Iceland, Norway, Sweden, work, non-work, the past, the present) to one big event (in Seattle, in Iceland?). But the big trick would be to get 1. some bands I love that are still small enough to be able to do something like a big party (thinking here about stuff like The Wedding Present/Cinerama and Seattle band Tomten, for example), 2.the ubiquitous everywhere-man Tom Skerritt to choose his favorite poem and attend the party to recite it (haha – I know – crazy), and 3. a place big enough to accommodate all these dreams. And of course enough people agreeing to attend. It would be less a 40-year-old birthday for me and more a gathering of people who made the 40 years memorable, for better or worse.

In the end, I did nothing. Not a single celebratory thing. But now that I see 41 on the horizon, I wonder if I should aim for some big thing sometime this decade.


2 thoughts on “Softly into 40s: Where’s the party?

  1. Trevor

    Rain reverie

    We splodge and kerplonk our way to that liquid place
    The place we meet:
    like a semi-colon that morphs into exclamation point
    Where every cell obtenebrates with
    lightness, joy & breathy triumphalism
    your lips like commas around an magniloquent phrase
    -we don’t have to remember
    the orthography of my knee wedged between your legs
    just so
    the wordless way you implore me to slip my fingers into you again
    the way each digit are glazed with stored memories
    their fragrance a bouquet of reverence, one to the other
    I’ll kneel before the sunset of your skin,
    its russet tone beginning to blush, evenly, and pronounce you Queen
    My hands coiled around your wrists, serpentine, you are safe here
    As I cup your head and gaze at you in awe & adoration
    watching the rain’s droplets hang on the window like lashes
    The water that glistens and glides across my prospecting lips
    reveal their cargo, in every hue, and intensity, the essence of you
    You want to make love to me outside in the rain
    & quibbling, I say we already have
    Another squall triggers my protective embrace

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