RS: Lost in the stars

My astrologer told me my life was going to get better, spectacularly better. The prediction was that life after 40 would surpass anything I'd experienced before. There hadn't been aspects like this in my chart for 85 years—and the good stuff was going to last for almost a decade.
I'd been looking forward to my 40s since I had turned 30. Them 30s hadn't come with a spectacular launch. My boyfriend at the time had done nothing to make the event special, and I hadn't developed the skills to ask for what I wanted or needed. I had only mastered the art of sulking. And I had wanted the milestone to be special. He had a knack for robbing me of special moments. Always cried poor when it was time to celebrate me. Our entire relationship had been about celebrating him. His PhD, which I had essentially paid for—along with his Masters and undergraduate degree—was his last hoorah. And then he was gone. Whoopee for me! Turned out to be a great gift, just what I needed, but it took me the rest of the decade to realize it and to begin to celebrate it.

My 30s basically sucked. So the prospect of 40, even without the predictive intelligence afforded by PJ my astro-maestro, was deliciously inviting. As it approached, I had my throat slit, literally. It was to be a simple surgery. But there has never been anything simple about my body. If a drug is activating for the general population, it's sedating for me. If it causes diarrhea for the general population, it causes explosive diarrhea for me. I can fertilize a 20 acre field after one pill. I live in extremes—physically, psychologically, spiritually, existentially. So, it looked entirely likely that I was going to celebrate my 40th birthday from a hospital bed. Forty candles in a plastic tub of jello and a bed pan for a party hat was not the most exciting proposition.

I was released. Then I celebrated and I was released again. The most perfect celebration. 40 ushered in with exhilaration. But I didn't feel better. Actually, I felt worse than before the surgery. Holy shit, Eyeore, was I born under a dark cloud too? Was a decade of hoping for naught? Was my beloved and much trusted astrologer wrong? It would be a first. Then, right on schedule, the tide turned. And now, 5 months in, 40 has already exceeded expectation.

And, in truth, as I reflect on my disastrous decade, I realize that a majority of the most important people in my life came to me during my 30s, made this most promising decade I've just begun possible. Maybe I've given my 30s a bum wrap. Or maybe, I'm just starting to learn the right lessons. Some say I don't look 40, so perhaps I can pretend to relive my 30s (in the eyes of strangers anyway) and learn to love them. Better memories through moisturizer. Not a bad way to face the future and respackle the past.