The Decade of Zero Fucks. And 10 things I love about it.

I always thought it was a big fat cliché. Those women who say “I love being in my 40s, I’d never want to be back in my 20s. I’m my best…

I always thought it was a big fat cliché. Those women who say “I love being in my 40s, I’d never want to be back in my 20s. I’m my best self now.” Suckers! I’d think, swilling a third Mike’s Hard Lemonade in my black string bikini. But it turns out they were right.

At 45, no one expects me to actually go in the pool.

In my 20s I was searching, undecided. Friend drama, boy drama. Lack of creature comforts. Lack of a decent dermatologist. In my 30s I was angsty. Still searching. Caring what everyone thought of me. Whining about my metabolism. Boring my therapist.

Forty isn’t the new twenty. In the words of the immortal Elle Woods, comparing making law review to spending 12 hours in a hot tub with her hunky airhead frat boyfriend: “THIS IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN THAT!” (p.s. Elle is 40 now, and trust me, she laughs at the idea that either of those moments would ever make her Greatest Hits list.)

40s turns out to be the decade of giving zero fucks. And giving zero fucks turns out to be the secret to happiness. Just a few of the real, no-bullshit reasons why I love this age:

1. I don’t have to think about what to wear to Coachella. (Mud? Bedtime after 11? Yeah, no thank you. I’ll never go to a music festival, and I’m totally good with that.)

2. I rarely say yes to plans. And never to plans I don’t actually want to have. My “excuse”? “I won’t be able to make it.” (Gift sent. Zero fucks given.)

3. At this age, I’m no longer bothered by construction workers asking me, for example, if I want fries with that shake. But if I am, I have an awesome comeback: “Thank you!”

4. Sure, I no longer have a killer metabolism. But a lot of the weight goes to my boobs. Also, tequila has no carbs.

5. I don’t have to worry about which bralette to buy. (See, boobs, above.)

6. No one expects me to actually go in the pool.

7. Never will I think about a sexy Halloween costume, or walk around in the cold wearing one. (In fact, at 45, thanks to luck, 30 years of working, and a well-tuned self-preservation instinct, I’m rarely, if ever, cold.)

8. When I hear a screaming infant, I take a deep breath and do a little dance. It’s. Not. Mine. (Sometimes I smile empathetically at the parents, say “coochie, coochie, coo,” and then run to the nearest oyster bar to read Elle.)

9. I no longer need to pay for a gym membership. I can just run from room to room, looking for my reading glasses. (Also, I have a new accessory: reading glasses.)

10. Most things that go awry, I can attribute to perimenoupause. Unexpected tears? Asleep at the dinner table? Forget your name? It’s not me. It’s the hormones. And could you pass the churros, please? (Quickly — I’m not getting any younger.)