Today is My Fortieth Birthday

And you know what? I feel kind of fabulous (Kenehora, poo, poo, poo). I woke up this morning to the most amazing pile of gifts. A T-shirt over a long-sleeve shirt from Zeke on Sophie's advice ("I've noticed Mama's wearing this style nowadays."), lovely earrings from my parents, and...an opera-length string of the most beautiful Akoya pearls any oyster has ever vomited up. Salt water, Japanese, faintly blushed pink, and just about the sexiest thing I've ever known. Why are pearls so luscious? It's something about the weight of them, and the smoothness. I wanted to strip naked as soon as I put them around my neck.

My husband is a dream when it comes to gifts (really in all ways, but I don't want you to send me hate mail). He's got an amazing, innate sense of what I'm going to love. And he knows I'm the kind of person who needs to see things wrapped in boxes.

This whole forty thing is not so bad. Skip the next part if you can't deal with birthday-smugness. In this past decade I've produce four children, transformed myself from a lawyer into a writer, published six books and written three more that will be published over the course of the next year, bought a house, and, most importantly, made friends. A whole pile of wonderful friends. At my thirtieth birthday Michael made a tea party for my girlfriends and me. He rented linens, a silver tea service, dishes etc. He made cakes, tea sandwiches and scones. He dressed himself in a tuxedo (all but the jacket) and served. It was fabulous, but the sad part was that none of the women there were really good friends. They were what passed for friends in my life then. Now, he's making a little dinner party, and I love everyone who is coming. Each one is a tremendously important part of my life.

I'm a little fatter now than I was at thirty (OK, about ten pounds heavier) and my boobs sag. I've got a little flap of loose skin at my belly, courtesy of four C-Sections. I've got some crows feet, my jaw line sags, and there are a few lines showing up on my upper lip. But my husband thinks I'm more beautiful than I've ever been, and part of me thinks he's right. I'm certainly happier than I've ever been. Thanks to my shrink and the glories of psychopharmacology, I'm finally able to enjoy the good things in life.

So all is good. (Kenehora, poo poo poo.) Knock wood. All is good.