I thought I would have some reflections on turning 40, but when the big day came I felt much the same as I did when I was 39, in the same way that when I turned 30 it didn’t seem too different to being 29, and probably explains why I still think of myself as a 25 year old.
I’m still waiting to feel like a grown up. Sometimes I’ll have a moment, like when I’m sorting out clothes into five neat piles, or when I hear myself talking about how screen time can lead to square eyes, that I think I might be getting closer to the elusive state, but then a small person will ask me a question to which I can’t give the answer and it becomes clear that there is an imposter in the room.
Nevertheless, the calendar assured me that on a certain date I should do something special, so I went to Paris. In a moment of the day where my mind was quiet, yet invigorated by the buzz of being in a big city, I started daydreaming about us living a Parisian life. I might be older, perhaps even wiser, but my wanderlust is as present as ever, a fundamental part of my being that I don’t think will ever change, even when I do grow up.