Stopping the Clock

If I wait too many more days to write something, I'll miss the chance to claim I really was once only forty years old. I don't like forty, but it's better than what comes next.  Here are the primary things on my mind:

• I don't like checking boxes on official forms that lump me in the 40-50 category.
• I'm that much further away from earning the trust of the, "Never trust anyone over 30," believers.
• My children are more hip and cool than I can ever claim to be again, and have now decided it's their mission to make me dress more stylishly.  You should see the girls debating the youthful-merits of a blouse or skirt and their horror when I suggest something I actually like.
• I can't believe my oldest is only home for 5 more years before heading off to college.  I'm clearly no longer the biggest influence in her life..that role goes to her peers, and maybe Instagram?  Yikes!
• It's inexplicable to me that I find myself feeling like I'm somewhere between 17 and 28, but my driver's license is irrefutable, contrary evidence.
• I'm actually pondering what life would be like as an empty-nester.  I have a several years to go, but the realization that my family dynamics aren't permanent is an eye-opener.

I've also hit the middle-age crisis wherein I've been assessing my life, and recognizing that small decisions I made years ago have set my current course.   If I hadn't looked on a map for golf courses in NY where would I be now?  There's a million and more moments that have shaped who I am, and where I am, yet I'm still astonished when I examine my life.

All said, I propose counting down, rather than adding another year, at my next birthday.  I'm certain I can tame the time-space continuum.