I started this blog when I was still in my thirties. I will be in my thirties for another hour. I know better at this age than to judge myself or anyone else on the basis of age, but well, call me shallow, say I'm missing the point, and I don't mean that you should ever really do that, but I am freaking out a little about turning forty. The mortality of it all.
I didn't so much freak when I was hitting thirty. Thirty-five smarted, but at thirty, I still thought I had a decent shot at turning into Madonna, or at least into Madonna Junior, back in the day. What a child I still was, but in an endearing way. Which reminds me of one of my recent self-improvement goals, to overcome my tendency to flagellate myself into a bruised pulp. So far my efforts bear fruit. I'm easing my internal dialogue into a kind of maternal tough love. I call it my inner bitch-warrior.