Cuarentona, or More magazine’s latest subscriber

Forty is upon me. In one month.
De madre.
Small, not large, sigh.

Seriously I am not in a tizzy over it, but it has run through my head for nearly a year that it is really not possible that I am nearly 40. It snuck up on me. In my mind, I am 21 and wearing frosted orange lipstick. It’s 1988. My hair is lacquered.

I remember my mother turning 40 and thinking she was so ridiculously old. Never mind that her 40^th involved a jolly time with a male stripper and penis-shaped chocolates. I’ve seen those pictures recently and she was beautiful, young and glowing.

Some days, I too feel beautiful, young and glowing. Some days.

My husband asked me many months ago to consider how I would like to celebrate. Initially, it was a no-brainer: We’d roast a pig. But, do I really want to spend my 40^th roasting a pig and cooking for 75 people in the middle of a blistering Tennessee summer. The quick answer: No.

Second thought is to invite a small group of friends for a “pickin’ party.” That means they bring their instruments, we provide the booze. We have a patio, a fire pit and an auction-bought 5-foot-long urinal from Tootsie’s that cools beer quite nicely and the friends are talented, undiscovered famous people. But, do I want to spend the night worrying about toddlers in the fire pit?

Third: Rent a Taco truck, park it in the driveway. Call the woman who calls herself “Rent-A-Rita’’ to keep the margaritas flowing. Hire a local, kick-ass cumbia band I recently heard. But, I am thinking, eh, too expensive.

Fourth thought is to take that freebie Southwest ticket and get the hell out of town by.my.self. Sola. San Antonio, Chicago, San Francisco. Anywhere. A couple of nights in a hotel with room service and no one refusing to get into her carseat.

I’m leaning toward numero cuatro.

So, as the planning stalls, here’s what I know for sure. I am writing a list about myself. I’ve decided it is not only an exercise in self-reflection, but a gift to my daughter. She might one day want to know that her mother prefers shoes with exposed stitching, is happiest swinging on the porch and been on exactly one diet in 39 years.

In the moments I struggle not to lose my caca, I often think about my grandmothers, who had many more children and much fewer options. I know the superficial facts about them: How many children they raised (and lost), the fact they both were short, soft and round, that one raised rabbits and ate them, that one changed the bed sheets daily.

But, who where they as women, as people? Did they like blue, did they sleep soundly, did they like their legs? Where they happy in the core?

I guess I want my daughter to really know me, to know my heart as well as the mundane and easily overlooked quirks and preferences we each have. Of course, there are darknesses I likely never will share with her (or with anyone to whom I am not paying $125 an hour), but the record will be here for her if she cares. If she doesn’t, then that’s OK too. The exercise is for me, a milestone to mark. It’s my road, beautiful and crooked as it has been.

Here’s a peak at my list, maybe it will also allow you a moment to think about the small things that make you one big you:

- Perfume: Orientals. Florals make me smell like a funeral.
- Perm-free since 1987; dye-free since 1991.
- If pantyhose rip, I say they “broke.’’ It’s a literal Spanish translation I cannot shake.
- I didn’t learn to cook until the third year of marriage.
- At 26: The ob/gyn gave me smelling salts after I noticed the dilation in labor chart on the wall.
- If you looked through the house right now, you’d find lipstick, new and old, on the kitchen counter, in two bathroom drawers, in the bathroom cabinet, inside my purse, inside several old purses, in an old diaper bag, in the swim bag, on my desk, and on my dresser. At least.