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Last year, I kicked off my 40s exactly how I wanted to: quietly and as selfish as this sounds, not having to worry about pleasing anyone but myself.
In the first week of December, the countdown to my birthday was on, and questions about potential celebrations started to linger in the air.
“Are you sure you don’t want to do a little something? Maybe Michele and The Boys could come round?” asked Mamma Vélo. “Nah, I’m happy spending it with you and Ian”, I replied.
“It wouldn’t be anything big”, Mamma Vélo replied, sounding slightly sad for me - “Your uncles could come over too, and I could do Curry Goat and Roti?” The woman is clever. She’s well aware that her Curry Goat is my tipping point. But I resisted.
Mamma Vélo’s heart was in the right place. I knew why she was trying to get me to do something with family to mark the occasion, as it was a celebration of life in more ways than glaringly obvious. But rolling slowly and peacefully into my 40th year on this planet was all I dreamed of.
My birthday morning was spent with my beloved Mamma Vélo, going through her vast compendium of my baby photos. At the same time, she regaled me with one of her favourite stories: the night of my birth (apparently, eating a whole cooked crab and having a swift half the day before you're due to drop is an excellent way to induce labour) and the joys of having a “squidgy and plump newborn” in the house just in time for Christmas.
Sated with the stories of love from my Mamma, later that afternoon, I disappeared into Soho with Ian. As darkness descended over a misty and freezing cold London, we sought the warmth and comforting sanctuary of one of our favourite places, Quo Vadis, and sipped on complimentary birthday cocktails. In the evening, we wandered through the city, admiring the twinkling Christmas lights and rounded the day off with a dinner fit for a Birthday Queen at 40 Maltby Street - or, as Ian dubbed it, “Jools’ 40 at 40”.
I came home feeling utterly content and at peace with how the not-so-big day had unfolded.
I was relieved I’d avoided organising an over-the-top shindig to mark The Milestone. I had to protect my energy after months of living in a state of heightened anxiety.
As discussed in Perspective, two months before the big 4-0, I'd been given the all-clear about the pesky lump in my left boob. I was just so bloody grateful for the privilege of receiving good news. All I craved (besides copious amounts of rest and more wintery pyjama days on the sofa with my cats) was to enjoy the clean bill of health and the blessing of time being back on my side. I could exhale again after what felt like an absolute age of holding my breath!
Still, I wasn’t interested in shouting about turning 40 from the rooftops.
It’s not that I dreaded getting older - I was excited to see what all the fuss was about! It had more to do with something I needed to learn to tune out: the societal pressures placed on your shoulders when it comes to being 40 and what you should have achieved in life by that point.
Tomorrow, I’ll have chalked up twelve months being the big 4-0. I’ll be rolling into 41 in a similar fashion to the previous year: quietly, with Mamma Vélo (who, considering the last hellish four months she’s been through, is at the top of my list of people to spend all my days with) and Ian - who is planning a spectacular Sunday birthday roast (ah, the joys of having a professional chef as a boyfriend) for us all to feast on.
“By the laws of physics, I do indeed have the same 24 hours a day as Beyoncé, but in my world, they are certainly not alike.”
So, I’m at the age when you’ve supposedly got life figured out and know exactly who you are and what you’re meant to be doing. Everything should make perfect sense at this stage, and I should be as successful as many of my similar-aged peers.
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