This is it. The final year of my life that I can still describe myself, albeit in extremely specific instances, as ‘young’.

Like if I were to find myself in a retirement home, for example. A bingo hall, perhaps. The Legion. Or a cemetery.

“Boy, compared to these folks, I’m young.”

The number of places, however, is shrinking.

Not that I am ready for the Last Rites or anything. You can hold off on that birthday wheelchair and the Frequent Pharmacy Shopper card.

I enter the last year of my Thirties much calmer than I entered them, for sure. The idea of turning the Big 3-0 scared the crap out of me, the fabled Youngest Child, Peter Pan complex and all. I really saw it as the death of something back then.

It is because I now know how foolish that was that I can look at the next year with a touch of subdued curiosity. From what I can figure out so far, the idea of the importance of the Milestone known as 40 is something that we have all bought into.

It’s the beginning of the end. The top of the Summit. The downhill slide. Old. Out of touch.

And for all I know, that could be accurate. I’m not forty yet. I am now thirty-nine years old, and if I’ve learned anything from those before me, its that 39 is the l-o-n-g-e-s-t year of your life. The reason?

39 is like a magic number age-wise. I recall when I was just a young kid asking my Mom’s much-older friend how old she was. “39, darling.”

My only thought at the time was how OLD 39 looked! Only later did I realize that 39 isn’t an age, its an allegation. A generalization. An alibi, even.

It is an unspoken ‘old-enough and that’s all you need to know’ which has become the numerical equivalent of signing ‘John Smith’ on a hotel register.

It is a very cool thing, actually. Any fear of 40 is nicely buffered out by this, no doubt the creation of those who hit the peak of Life Mountain before me.

The downside, of course, is the high rate of skepticism. No one who hears ‘he/she’s 39’ completely believes it. There is always that little bit of ‘hmmm…I wonder’ in their minds.

As I look forward to 40, figuring out what to wear could be another issue. At 39, I still feel comfortable as I ever have going my own way. Jeans and t-shirts, no socks and sandals – leftovers from my days owning my business. Maybe even the earring will reappear this year.

I’ve long moved from stores like the Gap and Club Monaco in my Twenties to the more practical-yet-acceptable Eddie Bauer-style stores in my Thirties. I plan on staying right where I am for the next decade as well.

If the next step in the process involves the Arnold Palmer collection at Sears, I just may be 39 for a few years myself.