I turned forty last year and I expected to feel some sort of way but apart from feeling confused and frustrated every time I spelled it fourty and spellcheck told me I had it wrong yet again, I didn’t really feel much of anything. I felt gratitude for the family and friends who made my birthday feel so special. I felt weird in the way one does when they hit a milestone birthday after going through a life-changing illness. I felt delighted and exhausted because Shawn’s brother got married four days before my birthday and our whole family was coming down from a long weekend of joy and celebration. I turned forty and I ate brunch and that was it.

And then in May I hit my 10-year anniversary of being diagnosed with cancer.

And then in June I had surgery.

And all of a sudden I am feeling something. I don’t even know what to call it. Unsettled? Uncomfortable? I am feeling discombobulated and cattywampus and very fourty-I-mean-forty.

I'm not saying it’s a bad thing. It’s just a new thing. A slightly itchy-brain thing. It is zero percent surprising that I reacted by cutting my hair off, truly. The most surprising part of it is that I managed to resist getting bangs.

Writing has felt challenging for what feels like a long time. I didn’t want to force it because who wants to have a hobby that feels like a chore, but the longer it’s been since I wrote for fun, the less likely it feels like an option to return to. So here I am. Cattywampus and itchy, trying to convince myself my new hair is more flirty bob and less granny bob, forcing myself through gritted teeth to admit that writing can be fun and forty is the correct spelling.