Here’s the thing. At this very moment you and I are doing the exact same thing. In fact, so is the mailman. The Pope. The guy who poured your latte. The squirrel digging in your container plants. The newborn baby. Even Adele.

We’re aging.

But I don’t want to totally bum you out. The good news is so are the other 7.4 billion people on our planet. So we’re in pretty good company.

I’m thinking about this as I sit in my oral surgeon’s chair, trying to figure out why I can’t pry my mouth open wide enough to eat anything larger than a poppy seed. This is a problem, not only because I can’t properly yell at my kids, but because we humans have that pesky need for food.

The timing suspiciously coincides with my entry into the 40s.

My husband, Frank, is four years older than me. Which means for past few years he’s warned me about the physical changes that inherently come with crossing into the middle of the fourth decade. I’ve laughed these off with a not-happening-to-me kind of attitude, otherwise known as denial.

I don’t mean to sound all braggy or anything, but my 40th birthday came and went and the next morning I looked like I could easily pass for 39 years and 366 days. But it didn’t take long for that mean ‘ole 40 to start her tomfoolery. To prove my point, consider this unsettling episode.

A mere four months after my 40th, it was time for the annual Christmas shopping extravaganza. It’s a long-standing tradition — the first Saturday in December, cousin June and I hit the stores from the time they open till the SUV becomes a low rider from the weight of all the loot. We buy for everyone on our list, including each other. June usually picks something to wear, which I then purchase, wrap and send home with her for a huge surprise on Christmas morning. Myself, I like immediate gratification, so I forego the wrapping formality and begin using my chosen treasure right away. In past years, I’ve nabbed earrings. A great shirt. Something fun for the house. But this particular Christmas, I came home with a new king-sized pillow and a foot massager.

The saddest part is how downright giddy I was about them both.

The thing is, I work hard at staying healthy. I faithfully do my 30 minutes of aerobic exercise, five days a week, so I don’t end up on the wrong end of a heart catheter like my mom did at the ripe young age of 50. Oh and, let’s see, my paternal grandmother died of a heart attack. Grandpa too. Maternal grandpa? Yep. Grandma? Stroke.

Now I’m no soothsayer, but even without a crystal ball, I can predict my hereditary demise if I don’t abandon the fatback, deep-fried ways of past generations. All to say, I haven’t had a piece of fried food in two decades. (Swipes of my kid’s French fries and tortilla chips don’t count, right? Work with me here.) And in addition to the cardio, I hit the gym and lift weights twice a week to keep my bones strong.

But even with my virtuous attempts, the temple, as the Good Book calls it, is suddenly in need of some repairs. Not just some spackling and a new coat of paint, I’m talking structural issues here.

It seems that I’m another victim of 40 and her nasty band of bullies. I still haven’t pinpointed exactly when the first act of vandalism occurred. But all evidence points to sometime after July 26th, 2007. Since then, it seems the little rascals have repeatedly entered the temple under a cloak of darkness and deep REM, resulting in visible cracks in the exterior and some shakes in the foundation.

Suddenly, it seems, the entire structure is vulnerable to all sorts of calamity.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a fatalist by any means. I’m typically a look-on-the-bright-side kind of girl who see her glass half full and a stormy forecast as 10% chance of sun. But it’s a bit of a stretch (ironic word choice) to think of my jaw as 1/8th open.

The jaw thing wouldn’t be so bad on its own, but did I mention that my Morton’s neuroma and planter’s fasciitis are acting up? Two sudden-onset foot ailments the 40-pranksters brought my way. So now, as punishment for wearing shoes I actually liked all these years, my podiatrist (yes, I now have a podiatrist) gave me a list of granny-endorsed shoe brands that put the frump in frumpy. And to add discomfort to discomfort, I’m supposed to wear these hard plastic, ski boot-like contraptions while I sleep. Yea, right. The idea behind these 50-pound gems is that they will keep my feet flexed, which will stretch my calf muscles, which will alleviate some of the fasciitis pain. Yes, there’s nothing like shoving your foot in a bucket of concrete to help you snooze like a baby. But the doctor said to wear them, so being the compliant patient, I did. My bad. Not only did I end up bruised from beating myself silly while attempting a simple roll over, the Velcro strap aggravated my neuroma issues which landed me back in the podiatrist office, this time staring down the barrel of a 12-inch needle that the doc inserted in between my first two little piggies. Not even the births of my three kids prepped me for that torture. I’ll stick with the neuroma pain from now on, thank you very much.

And just be sure I know who the boss is, 40 recently forced me to see a dermatologist. I hobbled in on my neuroma-riddled, fasciitis-plagued tootsies, speaking like a washed up ventriloquist with my paralytic jaw, all to hobble out carved like a totem pole.

My multiple skin biopsies came back as Grover’s Disease. I’m sure you haven’t heard of it so let me fill you in. It’s an irritating, itchy rash sort of thing that typically affects overweight men over the age of 50 that — get this — sweat a lot. All of which, I’d like to note, do not fit my personal profile. Don’t you know 40 and her cronies were slapping their thighs over that one?

I know, I know. Thank the Lord (and I really do) these things are just a nuisance. Ego threatening, maybe, but not life threatening. But it does get me thinking that if all this is happening just prior to the mid 40s line, what craziness is waiting at the half-century mark? Will the temple need new plumbing, a completely new heating and cooling system? Will the foundation crack?

Wouldn’t it be something if we could put 40 on trial and see what she has to say for herself? That would be one heck of a class-action suit. 586 gazillion trillion felony counts of desecration of a temple. If I were a prosecutor (which I’m not, but my friend is, which vicariously gives me all sorts of unsubstantiated credibility) I’d throw the book at her. My opening argument would go something like this.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the prosecution will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the defendant is responsible for the hostile takeover and maiming of innocent, otherwise sprightly, spunky, healthy adults. What will the evidence show? It will prove that the heinous crimes committed by 40 and her maniacal gang, have forced countless numbers of innocent victims to wear bifocals and comfort shoes. (The jury gasps in horror.) Our exhibits will further prove that 40 is responsible for planting dimples on all the wrong cheeks, etching deep lines into previously smooth exteriors and is the number one perpetrator of (dramatic pause) flab. We will also introduce experts who will prove that 40 is the cause of a serious condition known in the New England Journal of Medicine as going to pot. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, 40 is nothing more than a cold-blooded, menace to society and therefore deserves nothing less than to be found guilty for her calculated crimes.”

Yep. That’s what I’d say, if only I could open my jaw.