After forty...

I've told myself for some time that turning forty was liberating. Or maybe I've just been telling other folks and in the process trying to convince myself. After all, I've often said, forty is when I really stopped caring what other people think, and can just be myself--take me or leave me. But I realize that that's a pretty stunning lie. Yes, I am who I am. But who am I kidding to think that the opinion of others doesn't matter to me, that I don't feel pricked by (perceived) rejection and don't feel excruciating pain at not fitting in, pain that somehow worsens with age, since by this time, not fitting in should feel so commonplace as to go nearly unnoticed.