The other day, a friend sent me a text. In the last year, this friend has had some turmoil: she had to leave the job that she loved to take one that paid enough to live on (but is "sucking out my soul") and had some, as she put it, "Cliche bullshit" in her personal life. On top of that, we both turned 40. Her text read: "How do you know if you're having a midlife crisis? It's easy with men: young woman, fast car...Maybe I'm just depressed." And that got me to thinking. Me being me, I've pretty much been in "mid-life crisis mode" since I was 24. But that's another blog. How do women have a genuine MLC? Let's start with the easy answers: facelifts, boob jobs, suddenly mad that our husbands sit on the couch watching football instead of doing spontaneous romantic things, wearing low-cut shirts (that are steadily more low-cut as our cleavage travels south), that sort of thing. But really, what's going on? And are we allowed? I've been 40 for almost a year now. At the time it happened, I really hadn't thought much about it other than acknowledging the fact that it truly was no longer going to be acceptable for me to do some things, like wear a bikini or hog the dance floor at the club where they are apparently letting in younger and younger people (they keep looking younger and younger to me, anyway). Probably shouldn't do 5 Jager shots in a night and not expect repercussions. I should probably start excising the word "Fuck" from my everyday conversations. I would have to gain some, ahem, mature decorum. Ok; no biggie. I can do those things. Then I realized that in pictures, I suddenly look different. Like, DIFFERENT different. I'm all puffy in the eye area and OHMYGOD, are those jowls? Why do I look like I weigh 160 pounds? Oh, right, because I do. My nose has always been of the non-petite type, but it seems to have taken on a new curve and is sagging. MY NOSE IS SAGGING. That's almost worse than my boobs sagging, because there is no socially acceptable nose bra. And overnight, my waist went inside-out. And my butt flattened, apparently under the weight of the flanks it is hefting around. The schema in my brain labeled "What I Look Like" was incongruous with what I was seeing. And I've never considered myself to be a beauty, but I was no slouch, I thought. What do I do now? Freak out? Go low-cut? Get a cub? Or go the other way and stop coloring my hair, buy high-waisted big-pocketed acid-washed jeans and wear them with big polo shirts and trainers? How do I have a physical mid-life crisis? I'm 40 in a society that doesn't like women who look 40. Oh, sure; there are all kinds of role models that we can look at and say "See? Over 40 can still be lovely." And it can be, but I don't have a couple hundred grand sitting around for Botox and implants and laser contouring and personal trainers who will come to my house and make me cry and vomit. So, is there a place for us who are reluctantly aging gracefully? Part 2 will most likely deal with the non-shallow part of all of this: Who am I now? But right now, I need a nap. And a martini.