Someone is trying to tell me something. Aging never entered my mind until my 39th year. Maybe it's all the anticipation of turning 40, or the fact that your 39th year goes by faster than the previous 38. I was OK with the whole idea until the universe decided to hit me over the head with it.

My big day was last month. At 40 my life overflows with blessings. I have the beautiful family I've always dreamed of, a wonderful husband, and, other than crow's feet and nightly exhaustion, there is nothing of any significance to complain about. Turning 40 didn't seem so bad. The only downside initially was swallowing a few tough realizations.

I had a moment while out running errands when I glanced at myself in the reflection of a window and realized I will never under any circumstances leave the house without mascara again. Up until 40, I never had that thought. I enjoyed rebelling against my Mom's frequent mentions of how nice I would look with lipstick. Now it's time to kiss my make-up free face good-bye and save it exclusively for the sleeping hours.

Physically I've had to face facts about a couple of things as well. I now know after giving birth to three children, the Shar Pei (that really wrinkly dog) is on my tummy, not on a leash, and is never going to turn into a much desired six-pack. Sit-ups just don't do anything to firm up skin stretched beyond recognition three times. Perhaps limiting my daily trips to Cold Stone during pregnancy might have helped, but, frankly, it was worth it.

I could have easily pushed thoughts of make-up free faces and Shar Peis aside and carried on feeling not a day over 30. That is, until my inner circle turned on me. My physical condition took the lowest blow of all recently from my 6-year old son. He came in my bedroom while I was getting dressed and said, "Wow, Mommy, your boobies hang down now." That brutal honesty confirmed one thing--it's clearly time to install the lock on the bedroom door.

My dermatologist is also in on the "let's ram this 40 thing down her throat" conspiracy. I recently asked for a recommendation to battle the bags and circles under my eyes, fully expecting her to sell me on some big-bucks eye cream. Instead she recommended an upper and lower eye lift and sent me away with referrals to two plastic surgeons. I said, "Isn't that a bit drastic for someone my age?" The doctor replied with "the sooner you do it, the longer you can enjoy it." Wow. I'm really trying to feel good about this 40 thing but you people are making it tough.

At this point I needed a little boost, so I decided to try a highly-recommended hair dresser and get a new style for my 40th birthday. I told him I wanted to feel like a hot 40-year-old and not the frumpy middle-aged gal I was beginning to resemble. He immediately suggested a new hair color because "we lose our warm skin tone as we age." Then he added, "You still have a nice neck, so let's go short. You won't have it forever." Translation: "Forty is the beginning of the end, honey."

My quick haircut turns into a four-hour strategic battle to cover up my gray stragglers, warm up my base color and brighten my face with highlights, then the haircut. After spending a fortune, I leave the salon looking great, with my head smelling like a toxic waste dump. I go home with my fun, new short hair feeling like I'm channeling Sienna Miller, look in the mirror, and see Carol Brady staring back.

Just to rub salt in the wound, I recently popped into Time Out to purchase a bathing suit for an upcoming trip to Maui. I realized quickly that I'm a long way from that Spring-Break-in-Cabo body from my 20s. So many swimsuit options yet so few solutions ... more fabric here, more padding there. I spent $100 on the suit and another $100 on the coordinating wrap to cover the whole thing up.

Finally, I knew I was fully entrenched in my new decade when my mom passed along her copy of More magazine and I couldn't put it down. The articles shoot right at the bull's-eye on my head ... "Fabulous Style after 40" and "Anti-Aging Beauty Musts". I've decided to keep my subscriptions to Elle and InStyle, clinging to the hope that one article in 100 might pertain to my never-to-be-30-again life.

So now that I'm one month into this 40 thing, it's still OK with me. I can easily live with the physical changes--nothing the right shirt or good bra can't fix or hide. My hubby is getting over his coronary after seeing the increased personal maintenance spending, and I'm eagerly awaiting my upcoming appointment to get my roots touched up since it gives me an excuse to read next month's issue of More.

As for the rest of you, I just wish you would stop rubbing it in.

Holly Hunter of Los Gatos, a former high tech public relations professional who is now a stay-at-home mother of three, is a member of the team contributing guest columns to the Los Gatos Weekly-Times.

El Camino Hospital