E-Mail This Article to a Friend Playing the numbers Believe the 40s are the best decade of your life if it helps you sleep at night BY KRIS FRIESWICK

My three closest friends and I call ourselves the Lifers. We’ve known each other since high school and college, and we have been through every step and change of life together. This year, we all turned 40.

They handled it with the class, decorum, and aplomb that I have come to expect from them. "No big deal," said Suzanne — who is more beautiful now than on the day she got married 15 years ago. "Just another birthday," agreed Gail, who, on a very bad day without makeup and a good night’s sleep, might be mistaken for 27. And Beth — my bombshell friend who turns heads in the next state when she wears a tight V-neck sweater — announced proudly, "I have never felt or looked better." The bitch of it is, she’s not bragging.

My 40th birthday came last week. And unlike my self-assured friends, I am not okay with it.

I’ve heard all the rationalizations for why I shouldn’t be bothered about turning 40. Forty is the new 30. It’s the best decade of a woman’s life. Forty-year-old women are sexy and experienced. Blah blah blah. Believe whatever you want if it helps you sleep at night; I remain unconvinced. My friends think I’m overreacting, as usual. "It’s just another number," they assure me.

I disagree. It’s 40, for chrissakes. There is a world of difference between a woman in her 30s and a woman in her 40s. A mighty shift in social perception takes place the day a woman’s odometer clicks over into the fours. The 30s are viable. The 30s are fertile. The 30s are hot. A woman in her 30s can still be cute. They are, if not young, then at least youngish. The 40s, on the other hand, are your mother. The 40s are the decade during which you are more likely to get hit by lightning while being eaten by a great white shark than to get married. The 40s are the age at which your friends start dropping dead from heart attacks or cancer or other horrible things that are considered anomalies in your 30s. In your 40s, they’re just part of the medical landscape. The 40s are knee replacements. The 40s are menopause. The 40s are not an age you welcome. They are an age that you lie about. Forty is halfway to fucking 80. I am not 40. I will never be 40. There is nothing 40 about me — except my internal organs (the liver might be a little older).

My decade was the 30s, and it is there that I plan to stay. I loved my 30s. I was finally old enough to know who I am, and still young enough to do something about it. I could do stupid things and heal up fast. I had lots and lots of energy, and I wasn’t considered a cradle-robbing freak if I spent some of it on men in their early 20s. Then, just as I was hitting my groove — blammo, the 30s were over. The 40s are here, and I can hear them telling me that it’s time to pack up the mountain bike, the leather miniskirt, and the halter tops, and sign up for swim aerobics at the Y. They also mention I’ll be needing goggles. And a latex bathing cap. With pink and green flowers on it.

My friends and I have been blessed with faces and bodies that belie our age. So, for a few years, at least, it’ll be easy for me to ignore the 40s and remain in my beloved 30s — and on a good night, the late 20s. I’ll just laugh off the 40s as a misprint on my driver’s license. I'll continue all of my favorite adventure sports. I will wear the leather miniskirt, the silk halter top, and the four-inch heels. Most important, I will lie. I will become that woman whose age you can never quite pin down. No one will view me through 40s-colored glasses. If people don’t know my age, they can’t accuse me of not acting it.

Of course, I realize that, try though I might, the 40s will eventually stop ignoring me. The time will come when I’ll start reading Good Housekeeping. I’ll own bifocals. My husband will look at me and wonder where the hell all that gray hair came from. I’ll spend entirely too much time worrying about my bowel movements. I’ll retire the four-inch heels and buy ugly shoes. I’ll start drinking Ensure. I will stop looking at young men.

My only consolation is that if I’m going down, the Lifers are going down with me. As God is our witness, we will not concede victory to our 40s until that sad day when Beth can no longer stop traffic in a tight V-neck sweater. I’m guessing that should get us well into our 60s.

Send birthday greetings to Kris Frieswick at k.frieswick@verizon.net