Tested: Turning 40 (An Honest Review)

I turned 40, so you don't have to.

There has been much commotion around turning 40. All agree that it’s a major life milestone, but while some regret this transition as a considerable decline, others regard this as the start of the age of wisdom. So which is it?

A little while ago, I was in my late 30s, and one day I just went ahead and turned 40. It’s been two years now, and I can feel a marked difference. If you are considering turning 40, or maybe you’re just curious about it, read on and see if the 40 Series is right for you.

Comfort & Fit
The first thing I noticed about turning 40 was how uncomfortable this model is. Right off the bat, the 40s just felt different: There was a general achiness, sometimes injury from a previously innocuous activity, and heaven forbid I should sleep in the wrong position at night, only to wake up feeling like I’d been run over by a truck.

Let’s talk about fit. This model tends to be wider and heavier than previous models, with no apparent benefit to the added heft. Points docked for this, obviously.

Appearance
There is a dullness to the exterior that I can’t seem to buff out. I’ve done some research and have bought different creams and polishes, but the discoloration and cracks in the surface remain. What gives? This seems to be pretty consistent across the 40 Series, so I don’t think it’s just me. Be aware that this could be a design flaw.

Power & Performance
I’m only two years in, but already I’ve noticed a marked decrease in overall power. Or I swear, the jar manufacturers across the world have banded to super-tighten the seals on all their lids. Visibility has also weakened, especially of objects close at hand and in low lighting. This can’t be good.

But while physical performance has diminished, executive functioning skyrockets. This model is capable of juggling: work; grocery runs; meal prep; housecleaning; appointments; care for aging parents; multiple kids’ soccer practices, gymnastics, piano lessons, play dates; personal care; and so on. This multi-action feature is truly amazing.

Maintenance
Regular maintenance is something you’ll need to invest in after turning 40. Stretching is now paramount before a workout—heck, maybe even before your day! Ice packs have become my friend. And let’s not start on medical appointments. I see my physical therapist next week and my chiropractor next month. Shall we mention mammograms, and later, in the 50 Series—colonoscopies? Good grief!

Energy Efficiency
This model is definitely not as energy efficient as the 20 Series or even the 30 Series. In fact, there are days when energy levels remain low, despite plugging in at night. There might be problems with the software, which seems to glitch in and out, preventing a full, uninterrupted charge. Currently, this appears to be a manufacturing defect and there is not much to be done. Except coffee.

Value
The overall monetary value of this model is usually higher than that of the 30 Series and definitely higher than that of the 20 Series, due to the 40’s extended duration in the workplace, accruing assets. This, of course, is not always the case. But if it is, then you can enjoy some general financial security, which is a feature not to be overlooked.

Optional Accessory Packs
The most popular accessory pack is the Kid Bundle, which is highly customizable with the 1-Kid, 2-Kid, 3-Kid pack, and so on, though they’re all pretty pricey (even the 1-Kid pack). In the beginning, they will strain your engine and drain your battery, but if you play your cards right, the Kid Bundle should start to really help over time, especially when we get into the 70 Series and beyond.

These can be finicky, though, even the best-made ones, and while I wish there was a manual for maintaining them (there isn’t; I’ve checked), their ROI is fairly high, so it is overall worth it to invest in the Kid Bundle, should you choose to go that route.

With that said, the Kid Bundle is most frequently added onto the 30 Series and sometimes the 20 Series (usually the later models). Note that acquiring one in the 40s can be more challenging (see Energy Efficiency above) and even risky, but it can be done.

Overall Satisfaction
Turning 40 has its perks. I do appreciate the overall stability of this series. There is a security in place that is borne from the passage of the earlier 20 Series and 30 Series.

Still, I am only two years in, and I’m already seeing serious signs of physical wear and tear, which troubles me.

What helps, though, is those who have upgraded to the 50 Series and 60 Series and beyond, who seem content with their models. Though certain capabilities decrease dramatically with the progression of each series, these models are not bound by their physical limitations, and performance can be quite impressive. These are the ones who maintain that I, having turned 40, am on the cusp of something wizened and authentic and true.

For now, I’m committing to the 40s a little while longer. I’ll trust those with the higher series models that there might be some valuable benefits that I have yet to unlock.

Overall, though, I still cannot recommend turning 40. Even with its benefits, it’s a hard sell, given the 40’s decreased energy efficiency and low comfort ratings. But if it must be done, it at least has enough backing that attests to the worthwhile experience it can be. Still, I would keep expectations low. And choose a really good maintenance package.

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Follow me for more honest reviews. Next week, I’m diving deeper into the Kid Bundle Accessory Pack. Which combo is right for you? And how hard and fast is the no-returns policy? Subscribe to find out.

Parsimonious

When fall comes around, the California foothills behind my parents’ house become a deep golden hue, saturated with all of summer’s heat and fervor. The streets where I used to pedal my bike are littered with dropped foliage in crimson and rust. And my parents’ persimmon tree will start to bow with the growing weight of its orange orbs. That’s when my mother takes up her watch to ward off the squirrels who also take interest in her fruit.

Though the air is crisp, she is still sweating from her 5-mile hike along the foothills, so she’s in an old t-shirt two sizes too big that reads “Franklin High School A.V.I.D. Program,” a gem she unearthed from our donation pile. (“Why is, uh… your mom wearing my old clothes?” inquired my very weirded-out husband the first time she debuted her new threads.) On her feet are thick, white tube socks that crop out conspicuously from her chunky Reeboks, both clearance finds, the former an extra boon because “your father and I can share.” Her short hair is permed into tight ringlets that are more worth her money—“same money, more curl!”—and home-dyed a drugstore-auburn that will soon fade to an unexpected magenta. Her face is in a perpetual scowl—in either disapproval or from myopia because she can’t be bothered to find her glasses.

She is at once formidable and farcical. With broom handle in one hand, the other akimbo, she stands guard under her tree, lunging at and batting away the greedy, fiendish squirrels who have become her nemeses. But she’s also unflagging, and she stands sentinel until the persimmons ripen to a mellow sweetness, their waxy skin glinting in the sun.

When it’s harvest time, my parents reap the mother lode, ascending the ladder to reach the fruit up high, carefully twisting each persimmon off the tree to preserve their green leafy caps, filling buckets and boxes and bins. Bags of fresh persimmons are given to friends and family. The remainder—about half—gets turned into my mother’s famed dried persimmons. And that’s actually when the real work begins.

My mother painstakingly peels each persimmon and then cuts them into thick ring slices—no more than three, maybe four slices per fruit. She lines her Ronco food dehydrator and then every few hours, she must rotate the trays. One zip-top bag of dried persimmons takes at least two weeks to make. Her dried persimmons are arguably the best—thick and chewy, I have never tasted another dried persimmon like it.

I enjoy them so, that a few years ago, I shared them with a friend, who also liked them so much, I gave her the whole bag. When I called to tell my mom, I expected her to be flattered and pleased by the reception, but instead, she was perplexed.

“You gave a whole bag away?” she sputtered. “Do you know how much work that was to make?”

“I know, Mom, but my friend really liked your dried persimmons.”

“Is this a good friend? I think maybe only good friends can have persimmons. Maybe an okay friend not so much. If she’s a very good friend, then maybe you can give some, but not a whole bag!”

I couldn’t believe how miserly she was over dried fruit.

I have long relied on mnemonics to help me remember new words. Ebullient—overflowing with fervor and enthusiasm—is a bull rider with the biggest grin on his face. Strident—having a shrill or harsh sound—is like Trident gum, what you might offer someone who stridently screams in your face. And parsimonious—exceedingly frugal or stingy—was my mother’s attitude towards her prized persimmons. And she was parsimonious to a T.

We switched to another topic and then said goodbye. In the months afterwards, we debated over the persimmons periodically, until we just didn’t any more… though I carried a hard chip on my shoulder towards my mother’s ungenerosity.

The next year, when the air cooled, my mom stood sentinel again. Same t-shirt and tube socks—a pink poodle in our old gym clothes—fending off the same rascally squirrels. When harvest time came, my parents climbed up and down the ladder again. My mother peeled and sliced hundreds more persimmons and stood watch over her trays of puckering jewels. It was the same laborious process of making her bags of dried fruit, but this time her posture was different.

She came to me that year with seven bags of her dried persimmons, a veritable bounty.

“These are for you—and your friends if you like. You’re right; we should share.”

I took a deep breath and narrowed my eyes, feeling the resentment rise in me, and then did the thing a Chinese child must never do.

“No, thanks” I said, coolly. “I don’t want it.” Knowing my mother’s soft spot, I dug in my dagger as deep as I could: I turned down her offering of food.

That night and for many nights after, I laid in bed awake with a gnawing feeling. I had wanted her to know how heinous her previous actions had been. And I had succeeded, hadn’t I? But instead of satisfaction, I was left with an emptiness that only grows from the hoarding of resentment. And then I realized that as parsimonious as she had been about her persimmons, I was now even more parsimonious with my forgiveness, which is arguably way worse.

The next day, I called my mom.

“Okay, Mom, I’ll take a few bags of persimmons.”

I could hear the delight—and relief—in her voice.

“Oh, good! And please share them with your friends.”

I took the bags of persimmons, and I did give them to my friends. I wish I could say I was open-hearted towards my mother, and she was generous always from that point on, but we all take time to grow. We keep trying, though. Forbearance—ample patience—is another word I hold on to. I remember it because it’s like our parents, who aren’t perfect but continually move towards us even when we aren’t perfect either. And who, if you need it, will give you—and your friends—the very persimmons off their drying racks.

Letting Go of the Little Years

I have been waiting for this for 11 years—the start of the academic year in which all three kids are finally on one schedule, at one school. Up until this point, it has been diapers and snotty noses and up-all-nights and potty accidents and Thomas the Train. But I have made it, I have arrived. And from 8:20 in the morning to 2:40 in the afternoon, I am a FREE WOMAN! I have goals and aspirations and a whole house and 11 years’ worth of clutter to clean out and organize. I joined a new gym. I registered for a writing class at our community college. I’m starting to think about and make plans for my career again. This moment is a big deal.

And yet, on the night before the first day of school, when Wayne asked how I was feeling, I realized that I wasn’t as excited as I thought I’d be. No doubt, this marks a huge milestone. I know I’m gaining the much-longed-for freedom that moms with babies still tethered to their hips are giving me the stink-eye for, but it also means I’ve officially moved on to the next stage of parenting. It means no more babies, no more sticky toddlers—just sticky big kids, who aren’t as endearing. With all my children now school-aged, I’ve been purging baby books and toddler toys, and even gave away Caedmon’s once-beloved train set. (Goodbye, Thomas…)

In fact, I knew I was out of the baby stage of parenting when, visiting a friend, her poopy baby toddled towards me, and I tensed and held my breath. Previously, when we were both in the trenches together and elbow-deep in all kinds of bodily fluids, what was a poopy diaper between us? Now, though, her baby was Godzilla lurching towards me. And I knew definitively that I was no longer in the club. 

For the first time, my children—ages 11, 8, and 6—regularly walk to and from school all on their own. When they wake in the mornings, they simply head downstairs and read their books, and with Caedmon's help, they can even prepare their own simple breakfasts. Rare is the night we find them in our bed now, but when we do, we readily split the sea to enclose them in the protection they still come to us for, and I no longer mind the fist in the face, the starfish body positioning, the narrow strip of mattress that's now more than enough for me. Their growing independence is something I wholly celebrate, but how the heart aches just a little over my newfound freedom. Though I’d been looking forward to this stage for 11 years, 11 years is still a significant amount of time to be caring for and loving on tiny humans, and it’s a jolt to the system to move on.

I realize now that I had probably been anticipating this transition all summer. It explains why I’ve been so uncharacteristically insular, even jealous of our time as a family, with our kids. Normally the social butterfly, I subconsciously kept play dates to a minimum. Our summer calendar remained free of camps and classes, which was really a consequence of poor planning and procrastination on my part (those registration deadlines seem to always sneak up during the busiest times!), but one I later regarded as a blessing.

At the last minute, I even dis-enrolled our kids from their school’s summer program, foregoing the three hours each morning I would have had to myself, and instead, created activities that we could do together: writing projects, swim lessons, language instruction. (Showing them Peppa Pig in Cantonese counts as language instruction, right?) It was our happy little homeschool that I never knew I desired. I felt an overwhelming need to soak in as much concentrated time with my kids as possible, a desperation to hold on to the last dredges of their littleness, especially as the new school year loomed.

One day while on summer vacation in Portugal, while we were relaxing at the apartment and the kids were playing in the next room, a memory popped up on Wayne’s phone, and we settled in to watch this video montage of our children from five to six years ago, of a period that spanned the first couple years of Ry's life, when the kids were between the growing ages of 0 to 6: Caedmon, wedged alongside newborn Ry on his playmat, caught in a moment of curiosity, love, and awe for his new baby brother; Addie and Ry in their favorite dragon suits, beaming at the camera while Ry sports an impressive shiner on his left eye, a souvenir from one of his usual antics; Addie caught emerging from my closet, wearing at least 11 of my shirts that hung down to her feet, all layered colorfully, like a maypole ready for a summer festival. 

And then I started sobbing. “We don’t have any babies anymore…” is all I could eke out. Parenthood is lovely. And it’s devastating. And it makes us feel in ridiculous ways, so that even when you’re in the middle of Lisbon, on the most idyllic of family vacations, surrounded by charming, colorfully tiled buildings and cobbled streets, and your children’s laughter literally fills the flat, you can still be so overcome by an impending loss and nostalgia for what hasn’t even completely passed. I know I need to enjoy the present. But it’s only because I also know the present slips away like quicksilver.

Our kids right now are still so sweet and relatively little. Each start of the school year, though, I brace myself, wondering if this is the year it all changes. When Caedmon, now 11, will stop talking to us. If Addie, 8, will have any run-ins with Mean Girls. When Ry, 6, loses the last remnants of his sometimes still-present toddler-speech. (“Mommy, I like wake-upping early.”)

Today on this most typical of school days, after drop-off, I went to my workout. And then I made a stop at Target for school supplies, where I met up with a friend who is also a recent free-mom. We perused the aisles at a leisurely pace, even had time and energy to admire the home décor. At one point, we looked at each other and eyes gleaming, cackled, “We don’t have to be anywhere!!!” It was pretty great.

I remember not too long ago, when entering a store with my children was like an audition for Supermarket Sweep. I’d plop the kids into the cart, and once we crossed the threshold into the store, my mental timer would start, and we’d whiz through the aisles, one arm throwing items into our cart and the other reaching into my stocked bag, doling out treats at strategic intervals. One time—and I don’t know why I did this—I stopped to chat with a friend in the very Target aisles I was now leisurely shopping, and I unleashed the animal that was RyRy and let him down from the cart. (WHY??) I remember it must have been near the Fourth of July, because it wasn’t long before he was grabbing red-white-and-blue pinwheels and, scattering them like daisies, proceeded to roll back and forth on the carpet among his bed of posies. Even though I must have been flustered that day, wrangling my toddler and stuffing pinwheels back into their display, I now look back on that memory with only fondness. Those were the days…

And these are the days, too, I know. We’ll have a good year; I’ll love sharing in what they’re learning, discussing the same books I read as a kid, navigating friendships with them, watching them as they continue to recognize and maneuver the intricacies of life. I know it’ll be a good year for me too, as I get to focus more on, well, me again. But it still squeezes my heart to cross this threshold—every threshold. Friends across my circles are waving to their children as they drive off with new licenses, setting up college dorm rooms, attending bridal showers for their soon-to-be daughters-in-law. This letting go seems to only continue on a more towering scale. And I’m sending out a three-finger salute in the way of Katniss Everdeen to signal a shared gratitude and grief, a solidarity, to all the moms and dads who are letting go in all ways big and small.

It donned on me that even as I was going through these same life milestones myself, I never once looked back, never realized that with all the sweetness in my life, that there might have been any ounce of bittersweetness in my parents’ responses. And I suppose that’s the way it’s meant to be. Moving through life now—as a parent—is such a different experience, as we take on more and more of a supporting role, to allow our children to do their thing and shine. I know I’ll love each stage; I’m going to embrace it. And when it’s over and it’s time to move on to the next stage, I’m going to mourn it too. My heart contracts at these beautiful junctures and milestones in our children’s lives. But then it will expand again, as it always does. And continue to beat hard and strong for what is today and for what is to come.

One of my favorite captured moments...

They still love playing dragons together, just not in these suits anymore.

Addie having a field day in my closet

In Lisbon this summer, where I cried over our kids' waning little years, even as I wholly enjoyed what we have right now.