One's 33rd birthday is hailed as beginning of the Jesus, or Rolling Rock, or - hell - Larry Bird year. Well, I hearby declare one's 40th the official launch of one's Margo Channing year. Who's with me?
I'm not twenty-ish, I'm not thirty-ish. Three months ago I was forty years old. Forty. Four O. That slipped out. I hadn't quite made up my mind to admit it. Now I suddenly feel as if I've taken all my clothes off.
Fasten your seatbelts and all that.
