I have never had a lot of trouble with the 0 years. Turning 10 was exciting. Turning 20 was anticlimactic since 21 was the year that would make me all the way into an adult. Turning 30 was not such a big deal. Turning 40 was only slightly more painful.

There’s a lot of build up to those years and in my experience so far it all ends up being much ado about nothing.

Ultimately you are just a day older, amirite?

For me, the 8s are the hard years.

1-2-3 are the “earlies” -early 20s, 30s, 40s…

4-5-6 (and if you use your imagination a bit 7) are the “mids.”

But there is no disputing that the 8s are “late”.

This year I turn 48. That sounds quite a bit more ancient than 47 doesn’t it?

Hell yes, it does.

When I was on the cusp of turning 38, I said something about some future thing I wanted to do to my then father-in-law.  He responded that it was probably too late to do that (I can’t remember what – get my PhD, learn to knit, something huge I’m sure) since I was almost 40 which was almost 50 which was pretty close to retirement.

Insert slack-jawed shocked face here.

The looming 38 was enough ugh for me at the time. That whole accelerating boulder of age barreling down the hillside at me was more than I could bear.

I was not happy. So not happy.

And here I am at the next 8.

I’m not at all unhappy about where I am. I am healthy, happy, financially sound. My children mostly act like I’m the adult in charge.

But damn, 48.

For the record, 8 is a crappy number anyway.

Yeah, it looks like a snowman.  It’s infinity on it’s side.  It’s magical.

Not so much.

It’s the beginning of the end, I tell you. The threshold to the next level.  Trip over 8 and you find yourself up to your eyeballs in the next 0.

Even the Schoolhouse Rock people couldn’t make 8 fun.  Does anyone even remember this? “Figure eight as double four, figure four as half of eight.” Seriously? Such a blech number and now I am all confused about it, too.  Zero has far a better song than this…

I’ve been saying I was 48 for the last six months.  Rounding up, practicing, getting myself used to the sting of it all. It’s still kinda sting-y and now I keep forgetting how old I actually am.  Which I guess happens to the elderly, right?

I know this is old news and anyone over the age of 35 (maybe 38) will say the same thing, but I don’t feel (inside) any different or grown-upper than I did when I was in my 30s. I still weirdly want the approval of my parents. I still look around for an adultier adult to tell me what to do when something involves tools, ironing, or a lot of money. I still feel like I have time to start Crossfitting or do enough yoga to be able to raise my leg higher than knee level.  I could still learn to knit or get my PhD.

I know realistically 48 isn’t all that old and there’s still tons of time to do all of those things (except the Crossfitting, I am totally not doing that ever).  Heck, my grandfather is turning 97 next month and he’s not sweating his entry to the “lates.” And I’m not even halfway to THERE.

I guess I could avoid the whole thing by just rounding up some more and claiming to be 50. Then people can (hopefully) tell me I look terribly young for my age and I’d have a few extra years in the bank.

Women are expected to lie about their age after a certain point, right? (That is possibly the least Girl Power thing I have ever written here.)

This is actually a not terrible plan.

In the scheme of things, I think a fake 0 might be way less painful than a real 8.  Plus, better song.