What It Means to Turn 40

When you are up against artificial barriers and still figuring sh** out

I have been thinking about this 40 year milestone a lot lately. You know, I never thought that I would be that person. At least, I never thought that I would care. I thought that it was something that only happened in movies. I thought that I would always feel the same as I always have, because since I turned 16, none of those other milestone ages seemed to matter. It always seemed like turning 40 was this artificial benchmark that mattered to fictional characters and the novelty gift industry. Yet, now it is official, I will never make a 40 under 40 list. 

In so many ways, I still feel so young. I still feel like I did in my 20s. I still go out on Tuesday nights and stay too late. When I am out with my friends, I still have one more drink instead of getting one more hour of sleep. I own my home but still have pin up decor in my office and skulls in my living room. I still have no idea how to do my make-up, dress, or in general be a girl. I am still getting tattooed and going to shows. All of those things that make up my personality have so long been solidified, that I just didn’t see how the passing years were going to really have an impact. 

But, dammit, they did. 

Act 1: The Struggles or “When the hell did this happen”?

I have to admit, I was young and cocky once. I ate all the ice cream and loaves of bread I wanted, without regard. I don’t think I drank water until I was in my 30s. Seriously. I was fueled by soda and Snapple (peach ice tea and kiwi strawberry to be exact). I was naturally small. I was dancing 4 days a week. Sure, I had bouts of “I put on some weight” that I didn’t quite appreciate, but it was easy enough to lose it if I didn’t eat and drink like a jerk. Maybe because I have been the same size since I was 16, I am realizing that my size is apparently a huge factor I need to feel like me. To feel right inside my body. Now, my clothes just don’t fit me like I always have. Even if no one but me can see these changes, I can feel them, and it sucks to feel super uncomfortable in your favorite pair of jeans. 

I was never super cocky about my looks. I always thought of myself as average. Yet, it wasn’t until I started to notice that my eyes were starting to look old, that those laugh lines and dark circles became more prominent in the mirror (and on those damned Zoom calls), that I realized that I may not have been breaking any hearts, even though I had been comfortable with my looks. I felt that the way I looked on the outside reflected how I felt on the inside. And now, this crisis is coming on because now I feel like it doesn’t match at all. I use the creams and the moisturizers, and yet, nothing. 

The whole cosmetic industry, which is built around making women look younger, is failing me. 

Never one for fashion, though, I always had a style. I admire my old self who wore anything she wanted, short skirts, vulgar t-shirts, a slip as a dress, a different style from one day to the next. Now I worry that a skirt is too short for someone my age, if what I am wearing is appropriate for the event, always second guessing my choice when I arrive. I have no idea when I lost that confidence. Why do I care about the appropriate age to stop wearing fishnets? Why do I care that a skirt length or cut may be “too young”? When did I start wanting to conform? When did I start caring what was some else’s idea of appropriate?

 Dammit, I don’t know, but I did. 

I have always written. In high school, when I realized I would never be a ballerina, I decided I wanted to be a writer. Throughout college (and grad school) I wasn’t really sure what that meant for me. I took the path of creative toil in any spare minute I could find. I spent years writing, editing, submitting, begging publications and publishers to love my work, to give me validation. I lost touch with the community. I wrote album reviews and conducted band interviews for prestige and some free tickets.

I published a few poems every few months, just enough to keep my hopes up, but that literary success never seemed to be on the horizon. Imposter syndrome started to become the loudest voice, “Everyone is more talented and you are competing for the same limited budgets and page space.” I started to feel ridiculous, nearing 40 telling people I was a poet, with only a few poems published in some journals and magazines. It is hard to find time to write because my day job is hard, it requires a lot of mental energy and I would like to keep it because I have grown accustomed to eating and the bank likes when the mortgage is paid, and I will definitely need heat in the Pittsburgh winters. Maybe it was time to simply stop. 

Why was I forcing this? Why was I not listening to the universe tell me, practically shouting at me, that my dream was over? Why wouldn’t I grow up? 

Act 2: The Victories or “Dammit I guess I have to face reality”

But now, I have to work at things that used to come easy. Reality may be cruel sometimes, or maybe it is simply our perception of expectations.

These days I exercise more than I ever have (post-ballet) and muscles I never knew I had, ache. These workouts are not fun, they are longer and harder, but necessary for me to stay in almost the shape that I want. I don’t think that I could make it through the snow scene these days, but I feel good. I feel strong. It feels more intentional. 

There are some good days, days I look in the mirror and think, 40 doesn’t look so bad on me. I accept the lines, I focus on the experience behind them. I take comfort in the fact that they show that I am no longer, in general, young and dumb (I may have some good stories to share from when I was young and dumb). 

You can trust me to watch your dog or water your plants. I remind myself that no one else is scrutinizing my face like I am.

I am owning up to being the ” jeans and t-shirts” girl. If that means that the dresses only come out for weddings, that is simply who I am. This is your advanced warning though, in case we go to a fancy restaurant or night at the theater. 

Okay, honestly, I am totally burying the lead here. I f*cking published 2 books before turning 40. Though this sounds (and is awesome) it was (and is) fraught with doubt that the work is still not good enough. I know that it is super un-punk to need to get validated by someone else, needing someone else to put out your art, but here I am and the fact that two publishers put out my book, gives me the inspiration to keep writing and the motivation to keep submitting the new poems and the new collections.

Act 3: The Future or “F*ck you, I am living life my way”

Maybe some of these things that I was/am stressing over are just as artificial as turning 40. Are these expectations the unrealness that is presented by the media? Are the achievements and milestones the real fiction? Wasn’t I a punk rock kid who rejected all of society’s expectations? 

Yet examining them has helped me say, I am living good. I am living well. I am in general, living better, doing more of the things that I enjoy than I did in my 20s. I have made the right life choices. I love the life that my husband and I chose. It is right for us. It is right for me. 

Not being one of those 40 under 40 (and don’t get be started on the 30 under 30) honorees does not mean you are less successful, lacking skills, or should give up. It simply means that some of us need experience, we need the false starts, the hard lessons, and the circuitous journeys. 

We need to live life in order to know how to live it well. And for most of us, that takes time.  

I will embrace my old punk rock attitude of shedding expectations of disregarding what the media, celebrities, society tells me about what I should look like, what I should wear, what I should have accomplished by now. I will continue to work out, be strong, and set myself up for a healthy old age. I will treat my skin with respect and try to slow the lines, but I will embrace what they say about my story. I will make the commitment to vary my wardrobe and flip off anyone who doesn’t like it. I will keep writing, I will keep submitting. I will (hopefully) keep publishing (three more collections at least). Would I love to be able to write more, sure, but I knew this going in: Writing, let alone poetry, will never pay the bills. I will do it all. All the things that I need, in order for my unique blob of happiness. 

I refuse to sit still, I refuse to slow down, I refuse to grow old. I will refine my style, I will go out to new restaurants, bars, and coffee shops. I will explore new places. I will write more. I will take more photos. I will be more in the moment. This is all I can do. Make these commitments to myself. That is all I can really control. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Andrea Janov is a mess of contradictions, fan of parallel structure, and nostalgic pack rat who writes poetry about punk rock kids and takes photos of forgotten places. She believes in the beauty of the ordinary, the power of the vernacular, and the history of the abandoned. Through her work, she strives to prove that poetry can be dirty, gritty, and accessible by revealing the art in what we see, say, do, ignore, and forget every day. You can read her work at andreajanov.com or explore her collections Short Skirts and Whiskey Shots (Earth Island Books) and Mix Tapes and Photo Albums (EMP Books).