40

"How long...to sing this song? How long...to sing this song?..."

"40" - U2

I turned 40 today. For those of you who have had the pleasure of experiencing this milestone already and have come to terms with it - hell, even revel in it - this may seem like some melodramatic navel-gazing to you. For me, it's like putting on a new pair of jeans. No, not those trendy "broken-in" jeans that you just HAVE to have. I'm talking about the stiff, itchy bulletproof denim jeans. Remember Toughskins dungarees? Yeah, like them. You'd walk around like Frankenstein's monster the first several times you wore them until you broke the spirit of the unholy molecules in the fabric. After that, they became your favorite pair of jeans...just in time to watch them develop holes, scuff the hem, or dislodge a belt loop.

See, that is how I am approaching my new decade of life. By the time I'm used to my 40s, I'll be receiving brochures for how wonderful my 50s are going to be. Hey, I still have a few good years from my 20s and 30s in a savings account. I'd like to cash those in before the market drops out - or my teeth. 40 was always a mythical number for me. Noah was adrift for 40 days and nights. Moses was on Mount Sinai for the same length of time when he received the 10 Commandments. And how could I possibly forget the 40 oz. bottles of King Cobra Malt Liquor Scotty and I used to polish off in college before heading out to heap even more abuse onto our livers? If I'm correct, Edgar Allan Poe was 40 years old when he died. He wrote some of the most arresting literature in American history. He practically invented the crime story, was a master of the macabre, and still celebrates a cult status around these parts. Me? I just turned 40 and can barely write a bawdy limerick The only way I'll ever be remembered is if I get drunk, belch "Amazing Grace" and whistle a whiskey bottle between Simon and Paula's heads. Then, I'd have to rub marshmallow fluff all over my chest and scream, "Is it sexy in here, or is it just me???"

Hell, after that, the television studios would be shoving blank checks into my clenched fists - after I finished my 60-day stretch in the hoosegow.

Lately, I've been hearing all this delusional, say-it-enough-times-and-I'll-believe-it pile of steaming horse turd sunshine about 40 being "the new 20." Want to run that by me again? So, does this mean I can't buy beer until I'm 41? Do I have to date bimbos with big hair and stirrup pants again? Do I have to witness the stomach-churning ascension of Julia Roberts in the Hollywood community yet one more time? What about my resume? Will I have to put fry cook, paper boy, and grocery clerk back to their former positions of prominence? On the flip side, can I go back to Spring Break, drink from the keg, and smoke reefer on the roof of my house? And who decided that 40 is the new 20? Is 83 the new 63? Is 19 the new pre-natal? I mean, for 40, I don't look bad for my age. Many people guess that I am in my early-to-mid 30s. But, if I'm supposed to be 20, well then, I look like someone who spent a long, hot summer underneath the foam couch cushions of a round-the-clock team of unwashed, chain-smoking mountain men who farted and spilled tobacco juice every time they took a seat. The people who decided to declare that 40 is the new 20 are probably the same people who sneer at others who just order a "plain" coffee, have (or wish they had) a drag queen as a best friend, and gossip breathlessly until 4:00 in the morning about people in Hollywood who have absolutely no bearing on their lives and who wouldn't think twice about blowing their nose into the hair of their adoring public. 40 is not the new 20, it's not even the new 39. 40 is 40, so stop hypnotizing yourselves into trying to feel better about your age. You are what you are. If you feel 16 inside, so be it - you're still 40 on the outside. However, if you're 16 on the outside and feel 40 on the inside, I'd say that you're too young for premarital sex and someone is going to get 10-20 years in County Jail.

Oh, I'm sure that this is only a passing phase. I'll laugh this off as just another silly hiccup of vanity. No more gray hairs sprouted up overnight - no more than usual, that is, no liver spots moved into town, and I can still read without glasses. Of course, I'm going to need to buy a leather jacket, pick up a sports car, and date cheerleaders and Hooters girls. Hey, I'm 40 now. I'm OWED that.

Well, at least I thought I was. Apparently, I have to wait another 20 years.