In April, I turned forty, a day I did not fear.
I’ve disliked so much of what comes with being young— being treated like I was stupid, or seen as an object, or denied access to something. Aging seemed measurably better.
Some years ago I knew a young woman who feared turning forty. She’d held great beauty and intellect all her life, and had learned to use her appearance like a weapon. For her, all aging was a creeping loss, as her expert deployment of her charm rarely let anyone else gain the upper hand. She was so mysterious to me.
Recently, I read a review of my last book in Spanish that first described me as a young writer, then corrected this statement— pues, ya no tanto (well, not so young.)
Ya no tanto! I repeated, all day, to everyone, YA NO TANTO!
