The Problem with Halfway to 80

The woman on the dance floor was celebrating her 40th birthday.

I know this because she was wearing a black sash that read: “Halfway to 80.”

She was swaying to the music, her drink sloshing precariously close to the edge of the glass as she moved, and seemed to be having a fantastic time.

Which is good, because I spent the rest of the evening having a one-sided argument with her sash.

I encountered the birthday girl on a recent girls’ trip with my friend Caroline, a 3-night cruise to Key West and Nassau. It was the perfect quick getaway to relax, recharge, and make some questionable decisions.

Most of those questionable decisions involved spending more time than necessary at the ship’s “nightclub.”

“Nightclub” is in quotes for a reason.

We were sailing on the Celebrity Reflection, which is known for being a little more upscale and the clientele is a little older. It’s not a party ship. It’s a ship where people order martinis, attend trivia, and are generally in bed at a reasonable hour.

The “nightclub” was really just the Sky Lounge with a DJ and a dance floor from around 11 PM until... well, I’m not sure because we only made it until 1 AM.

Anyone on the ship looking for nightlife ended up there because it was the only thing happening. It was the DJ beats or your stateroom.

And I dragged Caroline there every single night. Not because the music was good (it wasn't), or because we were determined to dance (although we did), but because the people-watching was incredible.

On a ship where the average age definitely skewed older, the nightclub became a fascinating social experiment.

By midnight, it felt like everyone on the dance floor was either between 18 and 30 or over 50. Minus the birthday girl celebrating 40, of course. Watching everyone share the same dance floor was endlessly entertaining.

And if I’m being honest, I was wondering whether I’d get any attention.

Not because I wanted to dance with anyone or have someone buy me a drink. (Come on, we all had the unlimited drink package. Or at least most people on the dance floor were acting like they did.)

But a smile? A hello? Maybe a little harmless flirting to remind me that I’m still sexy as hell at 41?

I think this is a fairly standard part of any girls’ trip. Hanging out with my friend was the priority. But if a Chris Hemsworth lookalike happened to make flirty eye contact along the way, even better.

Which is completely reasonable until you look around and realize that almost all the other women in the club are quite literally half your age.

No wrinkles. No stretch marks. Their metabolism is probably still excellent.

And for a moment, I found myself comparing.

As much as I talk about confidence, it was disheartening to feel a little invisible surrounded by women twenty years younger than me.

Especially when the only man who actively tried to flirt looked less like Chris Hemsworth and more like Chris Hemsworth after 40 long years at sea.

But after my brief pity party, I realized something.

Why was I acting like we were competing in the first place?

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Looking around that dance floor, I had somehow turned age into a ranking system. As if the women in their twenties were automatically ahead of me simply because they were younger.

But younger isn’t ahead.

It’s just younger.

Sure, they probably have better knees. Their metabolism is definitely better.

But I wasn’t actually looking at those women, wishing I could trade lives with them.

I don’t want to be 25 again.

My twenties were fun. I made great friends, had great experiences, and made plenty of questionable decisions. But I wouldn’t trade the life I’ve built at 41 for any of it.

In my twenties, I was worried about competing with other twenty-somethings.

At 41, I realized it was never a competition. We’re all just standing on the same dance floor at different stages of life.

At 25, I probably would have cared whether I was the prettiest girl in the room.

At 41, I care a lot more about whether I’m having fun.

The birthday girl with the black sash might just be doing her birthday wrong.

Why do we act like turning 40 is bad news?

We’ll never be 25 again, and honestly, I wouldn't want to be.

If halfway to 80 looks like girls’ trips, late nights, financial freedom, deep friendships, confidence, and not caring quite so much what strangers think, maybe we’re underselling it.

By the way, the Chris Hemsworth lookalike did eventually smile at me once or twice.

Which was nice.

In daylight, though, he looked a lot less like Chris Hemsworth.