Someone recently mumbled something to me about being scared to hit 40. “Are you kidding me?” I answered. “40’s the best age yet.” I can say this because I’m, well, how do I put this gently–past 40. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. So maybe some of you under-40’s right now are raising your brows questionably, or secretly thinking I’m lying to the world as well as to myself. Or saying, “THAT chic just wishes she had her bikini-bod back like I do.” But nope, I’m sticking to my story. (Plus, in my mind at least, I don’t look that bad in a bikini). I like being 40-something, love it actually, and amazingly, so do all the other 40-something year-old women (and men) I’ve questioned.

Here’s why. It’s my assessment that precisely on the day you hit 40, all the knowledge you’ve been gathering for the past 39 years suddenly comes to the forefront of your brain and starts making itself useful. I firmly believe that on your 40th birthday, you sit down in the middle of your third piece of birthday cake (yes, third. It is your day) and you realize that finally, FINALLY, you’re free. Everything just clicks. You no longer have to compete with all the other women in the world. You no longer have to pull out all the stops to at least somewhat resemble a Victoria’s Secret model. This is the day you let out that never-ending sigh of relief and allow yourself to be simply…(drumroll, please)…you.

And it’s awesome. Because what a You you are.

You can dress how you want, say what you want, do what you want, and no one can stop you. You’re 40 for pete’s sake! With age, comes wisdom, right? Of course it does. And, “age” doesn’t have to be 90, it just has to have seen enough of the world to know the rules and know when to break them. See? 40. Old enough to have gathered the wisdom, young enough to enjoy it.

The theme of the Forties decade is Freedom. It’s like when you grew up and left home for the first time, burst into the world to make your way, failed miserably in your first job interview, but then sailed through your next interview because you’d already made all the mistakes in the first one. You’ve learned. You’ve been there. You’ve dealt with that personality type before or dated that kind of man before or had to deal with crap like that before. And now, you’re with it, you’re savvy, you’re wise. And you’re better. You’re better than all that, and basically, you’re just better. Not to mention, thanks to all the antioxidants out there, you’re lookin’ good to boot!

So, the next time I hear someone complain about being 40, maybe I’ll correct them, or maybe I’ll roll my eyes and groan, or maybe (probably) I’ll go skipping off with my new attitude and not care what anyone thinks, and ponder all the knowledge I gained with every moment of my 40-plus years. And then, when I’m done skipping and pondering, I may even go don my bikini.

Right around Thanksgiving, while I was five states away from home, I learned a valuable lesson. I think it occurred somewhere in between the argument with my mom, the disbelief at seeing my 94-year-old grandmother with her new “Alzheimer’s” personality, and the fact that, though I was having a good time in general, underneath I was still kind of pissed that I had to spend Thanksgiving (again) without a husband because he’d recently left me. And who is now “dating,” I might add. Anyway, the point is, I was feeling sorry for myself and did not feel like there was much at all to be thankful about. Au contraire.

So…I’m standing in line at a bustling Panera Bread in New Jersey with my mom, my three children, and my 23-year-old sister. My sister is young, attractive and full of life, has just begun a promising career as a nurse at a busy northeastern hospital, and everything I wish I could be again. As we’re waiting our turn to order lunch, I realize the guy ahead of us, who is about my sister’s age, has no right leg from the knee down. What’s left of it is wrapped in bright white gauze. I don’t know that he’s military, but it’s my best guess. And though this is extremely upsetting and sad to me, because I live in North Carolina and see military personnel somewhat regularly, it’s not the shock it might be to someone else.

I see my children also surveying the young man, trying to process what might have happened to his leg, wondering how someone so otherwise healthy and normal-looking could have had such an accident. I’m proud of them for keeping their sadness and curiosity to themselves. I realize that, unfortunately, they’ve also seen this type of thing before. The other folks in Panera though had obviously not. Stares toward the young man were rarely discreet. Heads turned, whispers lingered. In a sea of gossip, the young man remained comfortable and mature, and I felt a sudden surge of pride for this random guy I didn’t even know. I wondered if I could ever do that—rise above the emotion of the crowd, particularly when it’s directed at me. But this was a man obviously made of incredible bravery and courage, as I was about to find out.

“Tommy,” my sister cries. “Hey, Mom, it’s Tommy!” She and Tommy strike up a conversation and remove themselves from the Panera line to catch up on old times. Wow, I think to myself. He’s my sister’s age. One of her friends. A regular guy with dreams and aspirations and a whole life ahead of him, and now, an amputated leg. They talk for about fifteen minutes. Smiling and laughing, just being young and finding out what the other one’s been up to. My sister introduces us to him, and he in turn introduces his friends. Then we go to our separate tables, and I find out his story.

“I didn’t realize that was Tommy,” my sister says. “He went to church with us. Went off to Afghanistan, fought in the war. Do you know he just got a Purple Heart? President Bush came and visited with him, and talked with his family, and sat down beside him. Tommy was a medic. Got a bunch of shrapnel in his leg. He saw his men getting pummeled and he kept going out to save them, one after another, even though he was badly wounded himself.”

Wow. There are no other words. I was speechless. Suddenly my divorce and my anger and my sorry-ass ex-husband and my self-pity and my wishing I could keep up with the Joneses that much better… instantly dissolved, and I realized that here was a kid (yes, a kid when you think about it) who had thought only of others in a time that truly meant life or death, was fighting with all he had to give me freedom (to wallow in that self-pity I’d just mentioned), and was more grown up than I’ll (or any of us, really) will ever be. Here was a kid, more courageous, more selfless, more sacrificing, more “Man” than anyone else I know, and much more mature than myself, who was almost but not quite twice his age. Who had given his leg, and probably most of his soul, so that I could have freedom. Freedom. Something every single one of us probably takes for granted. Because I know I do.

And it hits me. Not only do I have an incredible, mind-boggling amount to be thankful for, I owe much of it to him—and to all the men and women who fight for us. And I am very, very grateful.

So I vow never to be so self-absorbed again. That part, I’m still working on, because I think it’s an American habit that’s hard to get rid of. But I’m getting there, partly thanks to Tommy. And it occurs to me, I wonder if he’ll ever realize how many people he really saved, and continues to save, just by going around to Panera and all the other places in our world, and continuously rising above? Someone like him, he’ll probably never realize. But I do. And I’ll bet a lot of other people that day did too.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. One minute we were arguing as usual, and the next? Divorced. Fifteen years of marriage gone in fifteen seconds flat. Well, not really, but that’s what it seemed like. And after telling the kids, the parents, the beloved and shocked friends, after going through the motions day after day after day, after being too numb to even cry and realizing that yet again, after so many years of hanging on, I was walking around in a body that carried a broken heart, it occurred to me—I’d actually been going through the divorce for fifteen years. This was just the paperwork. And I recognized that finally it was time to be me. And that felt really, really good.

Now I am certainly not suggesting that those of you who are married run for the hills while flinging spouses to the wind. And I know that many people who are separated or divorced take a much different look at their marriages, and rightfully so. But this was the view from my perch, and, now that hindsight is 20/20, mine was a marriage that was not quite right from the get-go. So when I considered that I could actually start being me, and just me (and now that I think about it, this is the same “me” that had been squashed like a bug and was almost not to be found), I was thrilled, brave, anticipatory and suddenly exhausted all rolled up into one. How was I ever going to juggle it all—alone? Three kids under the age of ten, a new job, some semblance of a semi-neat house—there was going to be a lot to this single motherhood thing. Can you say “housekeeper?”

Surprisingly, though, it’s been so far, so good. Sure, some days are better than others, some days I’m bitchier than others, and some days I’m just trying to figure out why I don’t keep more vodka in the house. But…my kids are still the same wonderful kids they were before the divorce, I’m still friends with my heartbreaking ex-spouse, I still hang out with the people who always mattered most, and life’s moments are now sweeter, longer, more savored. And because there was no one left to hide behind, I was physically forced to go out into the world and actually do what I’d always dreamed of. Nothing like getting the rug yanked out from under you to make you dance. But that, too, felt good. I grew up. And it was time.

Suddenly, I started to notice things. The moments I had taken for granted before—just the simplest little things like a budding flower or my son’s laugh or my daughters adapting British accents for the day—I now completely wallowed in, mostly because I wonder what other surprising changes might be just around the corner. And I realize now, that as I go through life’s constant ups and downs and bumps and jostles, I might as well stop to appreciate the highs and at least look up during the lows, and married or single, vodka or not, hang on and thoroughly enjoy the ride. And truth be told, I really, really like where this ride is headed, and I can’t wait to see what’s around the next bend.