The Terror and Freedom of An Almost-40-Year-Old

I turned 38 this past September. Thirty-freaking-eight. Saying the number out loud made me shudder. Don’t get me wrong — I am extremely thankful that I have another year under my belt. I really am. But dang…38. The number sounds harsh. I miss 32. 32 was cute. I would accentuate the last digit with a higher pitch and a sheepish smile. 32 was the year that I tried on “real adult ” for size. Was I a small or did I need a large? 38 sounds like your feet stink when you take off your shoes. It sounds like you have to thaw out meat for dinner and like you carry real debt. You know the kind of debt advertised on afternoon TV commercials. It sounds like you look like a Kanye shrug. And lately, I’ve been feeling a lot like a IDGAF.

It happened when I looked at my toes. They were two shades. A chalk-colored line ran diagonally across the base of brownness thanks to my overworked sandals that frequented my son’s summer baseball games. My big toenail was long and thick, covered in multiple coats of white polish to hide the other chips from prior coats. The other big toenail was broken on an angle. I had been meaning to cut it, since I made several small cuts on my leg on previous nights. My other toes looked sad and shy. They curled up on their own when I took off my shoe. They were ashamed that it had come to this. I stared at them, wondering what happened. What happened to the diva who kept a booked appoinment with her pedicurist Paul Choo aka “Notorious B-I-G”, as he liked to call himself. He was Asian, but you couldn’t tell him he wasn’t Black. He knew all the rap songs, could advise you what hair to buy for your next sew-in and when he finished your feet, he had a slight pimp walk when he took your money to the cash register. Paul’s shop was close to the local pizza place we frequently picked up food from on Friday nights. One day, when I was picking up pizza, I spotted him leaning on the glass ledge smoking his 50th cigarrette of the day. He saw me come out with three medium boxes, feet covered in dust and dirt from the game. Hoping he didn’t really see me, I began to try and do a little jog to my car so our eyes didn’t connect. I could see him stand up out my peripheal.

He flicked his cigarrette to the ground and loudly yelled, “Oh hellllll naw Ma! We got to recover them feet girl. Get in here now!”

He did his signature weird laugh — a series of four small staccato chuckles that turned forced and boisterous — which he tried to contain by holding a fist to his mouth. He couldn’t.

I laughed an awkward agreement laugh and said, “Heyyyyy. I can’t right now. Running back to the baseball park.” I threw the hot pizzas in the front seat and hurried and got in the car. I looked down at my feet and my toes curled back up to hide.

Everyone told me that when you get closer to 40, you start feeling free from caring what others think of you. Really? I cared what Paul thought. So much so, that I damn near tripped trying to get out of sight. I cared what my friends were going to say if my card declined on our group dinner. When we went out, I would try to quickly remember my account balance while scanning the menu for appetizers under $10. I would ask for extra cherries with my drink just so I didn’t have to spend money I didn’t have. One night, we all went out to celebrate my friend’s promotion. I went, against all my better judgement.

Rhonda looked at me with curiosity. She noticed I stopped looking at the menu and said, “Girl, you’re not eating? This place has the best Spanish food.”

“Nah, I’m good. I had a big lunch.” I lied, slurping down my ice water.

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked.

“Yes,” Rhonda thumbed through the menu and closed it. “We are going to order the special lobster and crab paella for the entire table and two bottles of red.” she said with a smile, handing him the menu. She looked at me and said, “You can just eat some of it if you’re not that hungry.”

This would have been fine if me and my girls didn’t establish this unspoken rule against people who divide the bill up by what they had. Now I, “Bougie Brokie”, came up with this dumbass declaration when I was swimming in the land of bonuses and honey. But now sitting on the other end of the income bracket, with my feet swinging in a pool of overdrafts, I could kick myself.

I also gave a lot of thought to wearing my weekend fro to my weekday job. On Saturdays, I would wash, condition and detangle my hair so that I could style it for a wash and go. That may not sound like a big deal, but for Black women, its a huge deal. It takes time and love. After many years of wearing it straight, I have grown to prefer it kinky curly. But on Sunday nights, I know it has to come to an end. If not, I’m met with questions.

Co-worker spots me with eyes that grow bigger as I walk closer. She smiles wide and says, “Oh wow! How did you do that?”

Me smiling with confusion (like Beyonce), “Do what?”

“Your hair? How did it get like that?” Co-worker is now doing weird twists and lightining gestures with her hands.

“Oh. Curly?”

“Yeah.”

“Umm…its my hair.”

She smiles while quickly shaking her head side to side and says, “Did you have to roll it though?’

“Nope.”

“Ohhhhh.” “Wowwww! It looks soft.”

Weird silence.We both freeze for 5 seconds.

“I like it.” She smiles widely.

“Thanks!” I run to my office.

I would have to go through that each day until it was straight.

But at 38 things started to shift. Even though I gave a shit about a lot, my action was not following through with my cares. I started telling friends that I didn’t have the money to go to our usual high falutey bars. I told them we’d have more fun cooking and laughing over a couple of bottles at each other’s homes. I started forgetting to blow my hair out on Sundays, so Mondays I was forced to let my hair do her own thing. And obviously, I didn’t give two craps about my toes. Those summer toes allowed me to walk through dirty fields and stand to my feet to cheer my son to third base.

I guess the terror of being almost 40 is knowing that I am on the brink of, forgive the cliche, being free to be me. Me — the diva. Me — the mom/wife. Me — the fro-wearing-fists-up-sister. Me — the writer. Me — the procrastinator. Me — making it rain when I have it. Me — going inside when I don’t. 38 may not be great, but it ain’t so bad either.