40 is the new 80

When my husband turned forty, I had a t-shirt made for him with this slogan.  I thought I was so clever, so cute. 

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Jokes on me now. 

One day recently I woke up and it had happened.  I had achieved middle adulthood.  This, my friends, is how I knew it had happened.  Definitively.

1. A nurse came to my home to collect samples of urine and blood for life insurance rates;
2. I have dish gloves that coordinate with my kitchen decor;
3. I can quote the cost of a gallon of milk, a pound of beef, and a dozen eggs — organic and non-organic, yo;
4. All the younguns in the office wear maxi dresses and it really annoys me that they don’t understand this simply isn’t done;
5. My husband offered to sit with the kid so I could go get a pedicure and I opted for a nap instead;
6. I have three separate wardrobes in my closet — skinny (that is literally dusty), fat, and knit;
7. I splurge on sheets rather than shoes;
8. I have opinions about Tupperware and am happy to share and discuss;
9. I watch Real World Schaumburg just to keep up with what the kids are doing these days;
10. I remind my readers about the importance of moisturizing their necks more than is necessary or polite;
11. My husband got socks and no-wrinkle shirts for Father’s Day.

See?  It’s happened.  Middle adulthood.  Sigh.