Yes, it’s true. Superheroes get older just like everybody else. Each year, in fact. (I know, crazy.)
This month, SuperWoman reaches the last year of her third decade on the planet. (Or is it technically her fourth decade? She doesn’t know. Math isn’t her thing.)
Turning 40, there’s a rough one. But turning 39? Sexy. She has one more year to do all the fun things thirty-something’s do that you can’t do anymore when you turn 40. Serve your kids grilled cheese and fries and pizza more nights than not. Visit an array of happy hour bars with Susa-Power and Cat-Eye. Get MotherBear to call someone to fix things when something isn’t going her way, like getting a non-refundable thing refunded. (MotherBear has a knack for that.)
Oh, but really, who’s SuperWoman kidding? Being 39 is not much different than being 40. She’ll do all the same things at 40 that she’s done at 39, that she’s done at 38, that she did at 24. Her eyes just hang a little lower now in her skin. Her hair just comes in a little more gray, and faster.
The problem is, there were certain things SuperWoman hoped to achieve by this point in her life, things she sees the other 39-almost-40-year-olds and even younger-year-olds doing and having. Getting promotions. That would be nice at some point. Or having a house, like she used to have. (Even though she has to admit, she likes the low-stakes living of an apartment. If only she had a dishwasher. Which brings her to…) Dishwashers. Nicer cars with seat-warmers. (Okay, she really doesn’t care about those, but even the option to go into a car dealership and even consider them would be cool.) Nice hefty savings accounts. An office with a view.
She certainly didn’t expect to have endured near poverty, living in a second-floor walk-up on the outskirts of her nearby town, spending half of her days without her kids. She didn’t expect to be low on the totem pole at her cubicle job. What did she imagine?
Oh, you know. Oprah. J.K. Rowling. Being one of those sorts of women.
Was that shooting too high?
The thing is, despite all this sad-sacking SuperWoman is doing (she’ll admit, she was the kid who used to cry when family sang “Happy Birthday” at parties) she’s truly optimistic about her future. She knows she’ll live until at least 80, barring some fluke tragedy. She has an entire half of her life left to lead, her second act. And it’s going to be a good one. A big one. Positive and beautiful, filled with travel and adventure and warm-hearted conversations over tea and wine, or holding her children’s hands as they face a glowing sunset and travel to Venice. Truly, this is what she feels in her bones. There is so much goodness to come, so much to appreciate about the life she has already lived.
So it’s on, Birthday Blues. Come at her, Mortality. Wrinkles, you don’t scare SuperWoman. Age is just a number. And SuperWoman, despite all her flaws, has become a wizard at counting her blessings.