If 40 sucks, 41 is just a slap in the face. 18, 21, 30 – those are cool birthdays. You can do stuff you couldn’t a year before. Heck, even 40 has that Oprahesque “I’ve lived so long that I’ve now achieved wisdom” kinda vibe. At 41, the only thing I can do better than I could last year is grow rogue chin hairs. Hardly a birthday to love.
Unless you have the most generous family in the world.
It turns out that 41 is the year that I achieve crafty nirvana:
It’s official, my home will never be clean again and the pizza delivery guy will get to go to college. At least I have no excuse not to be creative!