I adore Pamela Druckerman’s books. Of course, there’s the classic, Bringing up Bébé, but there’s also There are No Grown-ups: a midlife coming-of-age story. Therein she has droll lists highlighting the comical struggles of the decade; the decade that serves as an “intro to aging” or “Adulting 301” for most.

Here’s my: You know you’re in your forties when:

It takes nine miles to warm up for a run.

Your teeth suddenly and consistently get food stuck in them.

You have a few ex-friends.

Your highest aspiration in life is to have your medical chart read, “Delightful, well-appearing, vivacious, and pleasant. Well-groomed. Alert and oriented x 4. Bright affect, mood is stable.”

You recognize in real time when you need to shift into DIY Mother’s Day mode.

Your joints are not what they once were; you put your mountaineering skills to work hobbling around the house, chimneying down the stairwell and being thankful for handrails.

You can recall a time when you refinished your own hardwood floors and replaced any and all chandeliers with zeal, though it’s beyond you now.

You know how to spell hemorrhoids.

You can take a harsh analysis of your strengths and faults and accept them; you’re even learning how to work them to your advantage.

You see the forest for the trees and can (more often) let things go.

Be well,


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