Tomorrow I will turn 43. Forty-f$&@ing-three. How the hell did that happen? I don’t feel 43. Well, maybe in the middle of the night when I have to get up to pee for the 473rd time and my knees creak and the soles of my feet burn and my back aches. But in my brain, I feel like I’m still in my 20s. Sure I’ve lived the years between then and now. Lots of life. Career, marriage, kids, houses things like that. Lots of things that grown-ups do. And sure, on a Friday night at 9pm I would much rather be tucked into bed with my kids, in flannel pjs, watching Frozen (again) than heading out for a night on the town. I suppose these are the fundamental differences that simply come with age.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t wish to be younger, I like the boldness that comes with being in my 40s. The balls I never had in my youth to speak with confidence and determination. I mean I just bought my first red lipstick this year! Its just that some days I wake up and wonder how time can move so quickly. It seems like just yesterday I was a teenager lying in bed dreaming of my future and now I’m lying in bed wondering why the hell I have to pee… again.

Mrs. Robinson was 42 for pete’s sake. I’m going to be older than Mrs. F^&#ing Robinson! Got that? Holy shit. That sexy old broad with the seam in her stockings and the grey streak through her mane. I’m OLDER than that. Jesus.

The good news is that its 2015 and people like Gwyneth Paltrow (Oh Goop-y!) and Jennifer Aniston are the same age as me. Its cool. Forty is the new thirty, or so they say. Middle age, menopause – pshaw. Aaliyah said “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number.” But my Grandmother taught me to always subtract 10 – so if anyone asks how old I’ll be tomorrow, I’m taking a page out of her book and saying 33. You won’t rat me out, will you?

I need to read more. The trouble is when. I know, I know. I’m on airplanes all the time, surely I could read then. But if I did, when would I catch up on all my TV and movie watching? Seriously, when would all that solitaire playing get done.

Truth is I love to read, but at the current break neck pace at which my life seems to be moving, I am either too exhausted or too distracted to concentrate. The good news is that my book club is back on track and someone (very gratefully) suggested that we read Amy Poehler’s new autobiography, Yes, Please. Come to think of it, it might have been my idea. See… Distracted.

I am a fan of Amy Poehler, I’m not going to lie. So chances are I was pre-destined to love this book even if it was a piece of shit. The good news is, it’s most certainly not a piece of shit and I did love it. Not only is she funny, self-effacing and candid (all qualities I admire), she is completely relatable. As a busy working mom, you will recognize her struggles with chasing a happening career all the while beating herself up about being a good enough mom to her two kids.

As a card carrying member of the business of show, I like to read her stories about building her career. The dues paid and the hardwork. I also appreciate her position as a woman in the business and how she navigates through gender issues and glass ceilings.

Her approach to her relationships and her strong and realistic account of what it’s like to be a 40-something woman in this world, caring for a family and navigating business is compelling. It’s a good read. A quick and easy read with great anecdotal stories.

All moms should read it!