How to Romanticise Your Forties

How to Romanticise Your Forties

Nobody Warned Me It Would Be This Good

Somewhere in my twenties, a magazine told me forty was the cliff. The end of attractive. The end of options. The end of being interesting to anyone other than your accountant. I absorbed that nonsense the way a sponge absorbs questionable bathwater, and then I dragged it into every birthday after thirty five like a wet, miserable handbag.

Then I actually got here. And, babe, the magazine lied. My forties have been the loudest, funniest, most opinionated era of my life. I care less about being palatable. I care more about being comfortable. I’ve finally accepted that I don’t, in fact, owe anyone a softer version of myself just because they find the full volume confronting.

The thing is, your forties don’t romanticise themselves. You’ve got to do the work. You’ve got to decide that this decade isn’t a slow fade into beige cardigans and early dinners. It’s a full sensory rebrand, designed by you, narrated by you, and absolutely not up for committee review. So here’s how I’m doing it, in case you want notes.

Stop Dressing Like You’re Apologising

There’s a specific outfit women in their forties are encouraged to wear. It’s muted. It’s forgiving. It’s described in catalogues with the word flattering, which is code for won’t frighten anyone at the school pickup. I wore that outfit for about ten minutes in my late thirties and felt like I’d been gently smothered by a linen pillow.

I threw it out. Metaphorically and, in some cases, literally. Now I wear what makes me feel like the version of myself I actually live inside. Animal print when the mood demands it. A red lip on a Tuesday for no reason at all. The earrings that swing like little chandeliers and announce me before I’ve entered the room. If the look raises someone’s eyebrow, that’s their forehead workout, not my problem.

Romanticising your forties starts with refusing to dress like a woman in witness protection. You’re not in hiding. You’re not auditioning for the role of unobtrusive aunt. Wear the thing. Buy the thing. Tailor the thing so it fits the body you’ve got, not the body a magazine told you to mourn. Style isn’t a young person’s sport, and the women who think it is are the ones standing at the back in beige, watching the rest of us have a really lovely time.

Build a Life That Smells, Sounds and Tastes Like You

Romanticising a decade isn’t just visual. It’s sensory. It’s the music playing while you cook dinner. It’s the perfume you spray even when you’re home alone with Lulu, who is, as ever, plotting my downfall and biting my toes for sport. It’s the linen on the bed. It’s the matcha you walk fifteen minutes to buy because the place near work makes it properly and you refuse to settle.

In my twenties I drank whatever was free. In my thirties I drank whatever was trendy. In my forties I drink what I actually like. Green tea by the litre. Matcha as a small daily event. Cold Savvy B from a giant wine glass I’ll absolutely break within the hour because I’m clumsy. There’s something deeply forty about knowing your preferences so specifically that you’ll politely turn down the wrong cup rather than choke down something you didn’t ask for.

The point is curation. You’ve been on this planet long enough to know what brings you back into your body and what drains the colour out of your day. So lean in. Light up the incandescent lamps instead of the LED big light. Play the album that makes you feel like the protagonist. Put the good sheets on a Wednesday because Wednesday’s also a day you’re alive. Your senses aren’t waiting for a special occasion, honey. You’re the special occasion.

Get Ruthless About Who Gets a Seat at the Table

The most romantic thing I’ve done in my forties is shrink my guest list. Not out of bitterness. Out of clarity. I simply don’t have the energy to perform for people who don’t know me, and I don’t have the time to translate myself for people who refuse to learn the language. Your forties are too short for that, and your nervous system has filed a formal complaint.

I used to keep people in my life out of obligation. Long history. Shared postcodes. The vague sense that cutting someone loose was dramatic. Then I realised dramatic is staying friends with someone who makes you feel smaller every time you see them. Quietly drifting isn’t drama. It’s admin. It’s housekeeping for your inner life. I can’t recommend it enough.

What replaces those people is the good stuff. The friend who texts you a voice note at 11pm because she’s got thoughts about a podcast episode. The colleague who clocks when you’re spiralling and quietly steers the conversation somewhere softer without making it a thing. The handful of humans who’ve seen you wobble and stayed in the chair. Romanticising your forties means treating those people like the rare resource they are. Show up. Send the flowers. Answer the call. Build the table around the ones who actually pull their chair in.

Let Your Forties Be Loud, Strange and Entirely Yours

There’s a quiet expectation that women calm down in their forties. Soften. Settle. Stop having opinions about things at dinner parties. Stop dancing in the kitchen. Stop laughing at your own jokes in public. I’ve read the brief and I’m declining. My forties aren’t a wind down. They’re a warm up for the most unapologetic decades of my entire life.

I’m neurospicy. I run a podcast where I overshare for sport. I live with a small black demon who believes my toes are a snack and my dignity is a chew toy. My life isn’t tidy and I’m not interested in making it look tidy for anyone scrolling past. The relief of not performing wellness, calm, or ladylike restraint is, frankly, better than any anti ageing serum on the market. And I’ve tried a lot of serums.

So here’s the brief, if you want one. Wear the thing. Drink the matcha. Play the music. Keep the friends who get it and gently release the ones who never did. Make your home smell like a memory you actually want. Laugh louder than the room expects. Romanticising your forties isn’t about pretending you’re still twenty five. It’s about finally being so completely yourself that twenty five looks like a rough draft. The final version, babe, is right here. And she’s having the best time.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit  BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG  @BryJaimea

1. We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency 11:56
2. The Wine Aunt Manifesto 16:21
3. Who Said Anything About a Crisis? 13:07

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