Yes, it is July, and another birthday has come and gone. I kept a fairly low profile on this particular birthday. There is just something… old… about turning 39. Something not quite right.

This birthday really got the memories going. Actually, I think I get rather contemplative on all my birthdays, but lately, more so. It was just the other day that I was a curly-haired, bright-eyed goddess, with the earth at my feet, and my hands reaching towards the stars.

I know 39 is not old. Really. Intellectually, I know this. But it really feels as if I have reached my sell-by-date. There is something odd about a 39-year old going barefoot to the local market, wearing my comfy weekend rags. When we went out for my birthday cocktails, we were the oldest people by far in the pub. OK, I’ll admit it – I was the oldest person by far. My husband is a great deal younger than me.

There is almost a post-35 turning point. Now you are all grown up. The grey hairs no longer come one by one, but in patches. The wrinkles don’t just appear when you laugh, but they sort of sit there permanently.

And yes, quite frankly, I don’t want to be labelled as “old”. I am fun-loving and excited about things. I have a world still left to explore. I want to become a mom, I want to still write that book, I want to let my hair down and dance barefoot in the waves.

So I have something to say to society that has “expectations” of women my age. Bury those expectations. I will be as young as I think I am. And if I look ridiculous to you, you are welcome to be old before your time.