Dear 45,
I am writing this out of concern for you. It appears that you think you are 50, and you, my friend, are no 50.
You are, to be sure, way past 40. I will give you that much. 40, although scary to think about, really was not such a big deal. Sure, people warned me about 40. But in the end, 40 was just a number. It brought no giant change as prophesied by so many. Some little changes--an ache here, a slower mile time there--but nothing dramatic. 45, you are only five years more. And five years is not an eternity.
You, 45, seem to think you are years ahead of your time. This must stop. Now.
I do not want to be disrespectful. You have five whole years on 40. I acknowledge that, and I salute you. Experience is important. But I see the road you are headed down, and while it's ultimately a good one, you need to slow down a bit. Take your time. Don't rush into things. I like where you are going, but you're getting a little pushy about it.
For example: you have politely insisted that I exercise more. And I do, because you threaten me with actual weight gain if I do not comply (40 was a bit kinder in that respect--it actually let me lose weight when I exercised).
You have also kindly, persistently nudged me to become better acquainted with an old friend, ibuprofen. I've never had anything against ibuprofen, by the way. We always got along. We just didn't need to be in constant contact. We were fine getting together every now and again. But at your insistence, now we hook up regularly. I concede that you were right. The more I get to know ibuprofen, the more I appreciate its qualities. And you probably already knew this, but it turns out that exercise and ibuprofen have been hanging out together for years; I almost feel like a third wheel in the relationship.
And another thing, 45. Get off my back. Last week I threw it out. Know what I was doing when it went out? Not sailing. Not swimming. Not running or gardening or lifting heavy grocery bags. Nothing even remotely athletic or even purposeful. I was sunbathing. Really. I kid you not. Layed down on the lounge chair for twenty minutes, and then couldn't get up. What's up with that, 45? You're going to take me out of the picture with sunbathing? That's just lame, even for you, 45. I understand you're excited about my renewed friendship with ibuprofen, but I see what you're doing. You're pushing me towards flexeril. And I know flexeril hangs with vicodin. I'm not wild about either of them. Not yet. You shouldn't be either. And you better watch out, 45. I'm pretty sure 50 has already called shotgun with both of them.
Another thing I need to mention, 45, for your own good: I know you are excited about the prospect of being 50, but take a cue from 40, please, and realize that the day is not over at 7pm. There's still plenty of exciting stuff to do after the sun goes down. I know you may not love dancing into the wee hours the way 30 and even 40 did, but you are underestimating yourself. I'm not trying to unfairly compare you to your younger self; I know we need more rest as we get older. But for the love of god, you're 45, not 80. Stop whispering in my ear that it's okay to be in my jammies at dinner time. It's not. I know you've worked your magic and gotten me to hit the sack before 9pm plenty of times, but I'm going to start fighting you on this one. Fair warning.
In closing, I just want to remind you, 45, that I'm trying really, really hard to act my age. My parents taught me that long ago; did anyone ever take the time to teach YOU that? It's important. Don't rush it. I need you, 45. I need you to stick to your guns and keep me feeling 45, not try to make me feel older. 50 is five long years away still. I don't think either one of us is quite mature enough to make that leap just yet.
Thank you for your understanding, and I hope we can still be friends.
Sincerely,
Kim
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