On Turning 42: A Date with Time, Life, and Someone Special
People say turning 30 is a big thing. They say the same for 40 and 50. But how about 42? Is it a smaller — perhaps the in-between year that slips by unnoticed? Just another tick on the calendar? Or is it the year one starts counting and feeling time differently — aware that each passing year can never be reclaimed?
Honestly, I didn’t know. And on such a fine autumn day in New York, I decided not to find out. Instead, I took the day off — to meet her. To hang out with 42. Maybe that way, she would reveal who she really was, after all.
After dropping my son off, I joined the Parents’ Coffee hosted by his school, held at the 175-year-old European-style church. She was already waiting for me by the entrance, her posture graceful and unhurried, wrapped in a thin beige trench coat, with a cream scarf draped loosely over her small shoulders.
Stepping inside a spacious, well-lit meeting room on the second floor, we found a few mothers already there, mingling in chatter and laughter. In the middle of the room stood a large square table, its wood worn smooth by time, vintage chairs surrounding it. A pot of coffee gently simmered in the far corner, sending warm and soul-awakening spirals into the air. Beside it, a tray of cranberry scones and chocolate croissants sat neatly in rows.
After a few hi’s and hello’s, and a moment of indecision, we each picked up a cranberry scone, put it on a pumpkin-patterned paper plate, and served ourselves a cup of warm coffee. 42 looked surprised that I drank coffee now.
“I love the smell,” I confessed. “And after reading my favorite book, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, I was seduced. My husband has it every morning and I can’t resist the aroma anymore.”
She didn’t nod, but I knew she understood: the love for coffee was universal, especially for a writer I’d become.
We chatted with the school director and a mother in the Parent Committee about what was happening across town — the bus schedule, the programs, and how we each could contribute to a great school experience for our children.
When the Parent Committee mother eagerly looked at me to guide the next Parents’ Coffee with some structure based on my work, 42 gave me a reminding glance. Through her eyes, I saw a woman who moved through the world with the kind of confidence that comes from not needing to prove a thing, or chase time, or please anyone.
“I’ve had a number of commitments,” I smiled, “so December would be better”.
It was 10:15a.m. when 42 nudged me to leave. I told her our next stop would be Starbucks, near the train station where I sometimes worked.
“Would a short walk around the corner do?” she asked. “We could take our time and see that beautiful white house with two big hydrangea trees in front?”
It sounded like a lovely idea until I realized: how on earth did she know?
Before I could ask, she said, “Of course, I know. See, I’m 42.”
The roundabout was a small one, lined with a few sleepy houses, green lawns, and flowers of different colors. We walked side by side, sunlight on our shoulders, yellow leaves under our feet, and the crisp air of the morning wrapping around us.
A golden leaf softly landed on her hair. 42 paused — long and still — as if she were listening to something deeper than the whisper of the leaf drifting away on the breeze.
“So,” she said. “What’s new?”
“Well, we moved our little one to this new school. He’s been enjoying it so far. And I’m glad we made that right decision — even if it means shorter workdays for me. Yet, I feel happy and content, as these years are foundational for him.”
“I know that it was a very hard decision,” she said gently, turning to meet my eyes. “But years from now, you’ll look back and smile. Slowing down during this time was wise — a quiet kind of winning. And I’m glad you’ve come this far.”
“And I heard you got your driver’s license? And you published and launched your first book?”
“Yes! Oh, yes! Driving made the decision to move to another school less difficult. This school is farther, so walking wasn’t an option,” I said. “And the book, yes, finally… I did it.”
“How did all these make you feel?” 42 asked, her voice warm, her eyes reflective.
“Well, proud and fulfilled. I had never thought getting a driver’s license would make me feel so proud. But it did, because I overcame myself. And funny enough, driving was not a chore, I learned. It was magic, because now I see it empowers me to make important decisions that move our lives forward, like the one about school,” I said. “I love it now.”
“That’s life, isn’t it?” 42 said. “It’s not the big, celebrated things that bring true fulfillment. Sometimes, it’s the seemingly boring, simple things that fill your heart,” she paused. “It sounds easy, but it’s such a journey of becoming.”
I was lingering on those last few words when we found ourselves in front of a secondhand boutique I had always wanted to visit. My feet moved before my mind agreed, and 42 followed.
She helped me pick a few pieces: a white turtleneck with a grey fur jacket, a red blazer, a purple shirt. I tried them on, but none worked. They looked good to my eyes but didn’t feel right. When we were heading out the door, 42 tossed me a sweater and said, “How about this?”
It was light yellow, cashmere, soft and simple. I slipped it on and something in me exhaled. The only thing was, I couldn’t find the brand name, and hesitated.
“There was no brand,” said the French shopkeeper, her accent lilting. “I tried to look but couldn’t tell.”
“Brand doesn’t matter.” 42 said, as if reading my thoughts. “If you feel at home in it, it’s yours.” Her reflection lingered beside mine in the mirror.
“After all, what good is a brand when you don’t feel truly fit?” She added.
I looked at the three dots at the top of the back of the sweater and chimed in, “True. Wearing a Rolex doesn’t make you feel rich. Owning your time does.”
“And in this case, owning yourself, isn’t it?” 42 said with a wink.
I paid, took the brown paper bag, and stepped back into the autumn sunlight. Didn’t I want to add more colors to my wardrobe, I thought. The piece was indeed a great fit. And as I smiled up at the rustling leaves above my head, my heart, too, began to hum a song I love — “Brighter than the Sun.”
A few steps down, the French bakery came into view, its buttery scent curling through the air, inviting us in.
“This one is among my favorite places in town,” I told her.
“I can tell,” 42 announced, inhaling the sweet aroma drifting from the back kitchen and marveling at the cakes displayed like art behind the glass.
I ordered an apple turnover, my most favorite at this store, for both of us to share. At the counter, Vivian, the Moroccan-French-American store owner, told me she didn’t accept cards with purchases less than USD 10.
Elissa, who I’d chatted with earlier while waiting for the pastry to warm, said, “It’s on me. You can pay it forward the next time.” She paid, we took a photo, and Elissa grabbed the big paper bag containing five kinds of cakes to bring home — it was the birthday of her daughter’s boyfriend, who nearly lost his life in an accident in Ohio, so she made it extra special.
So, both of us not only had a nice treat but also made a new friend. 42, with a sweet tooth, ate more than half of the cake while I flipped through my book.
“You love this one, don’t you?” She asked, brushing a crumb at the corner of her mouth with the ease of someone who long past self-consciousness.
“How do you know?”
“Well, 42 knows everything, right? And you love it because it’s written with clear language and simplicity, but it’s infused with optimism and the love for the ordinary yet beautiful things in life?”
And she didn’t mind me reading a few more pages before we headed to Starbucks and ordered a cup of hot latte. Five minutes later, my husband pulled up with our son in the back seat.
42 and I bid farewell.
“Happy 42,” she said, her voice gentle, warm, and steady like a heartbeat.
I gave her a hug, a tight one full of gratitude, before climbing into the car.
From the window, I watched her fade gently into the sunlight spilling down from high above. She was gone.
42 didn’t reveal herself, yet I’d come to learn and adore her quiet knowing. She didn’t care whether turning a year older was a big thing or a small one; what mattered was savoring the life lived between the years.
Sitting beside my husband, I knew 42 would always walk beside me — lovingly, faithfully — just as the way she’d walked beside every age of me all along. Then a ripple of excitement flooded me: soon I’d see the round buttercream cake I’d ordered from a local mom I’d met at a town yard sale. It was not from a store, but homemade, crafted by hand and heart. I’d also told Sabina to add extra buttercream and make the cake even less sweet than her already delicate ones — just the way I liked it.
On top, she’d pipe a bed of purple flowers, the words curling around them: Let’s live, love, uplift lives and write. Above it would read, “42”, with a heart bowing beside, beckoning me to promise to the girl I once was, and all the women I’ve been, to keep becoming: gently, bravely, soulfully, and infinitely.
