Post subtitle: Turning 40 in Fort Myers Beach, Florida, a town described by Lonely Planet as “a bit faded, filled with high-rise condos and hotels next to pastel businesses all in varying shades of seaside decay—some are definitely looking one hurricane past their prime.”

And what a faded, one-hurricane-past-its-prime birthday celebration it was! The rest of the family didn’t seem too impressed with Fort Myers Beach, but I liked it’s sketchiness and its personality. I don’t need some fancy 40 party! I spent my time at Jimmy B’s Rooftop Bar, right in the center of the action but somehow the only business in an abandoned, three-story shopping complex. Weird skull graffiti on the ground floor—tattoo business gone downhill at the beach?—but they had an elevator, which meant the bar was filled with old couples using walkers to wobble to the dance floor to slam a few Bud Lights and then get their groove on. And the music was supplied by a karaoke guitarist! (Yes, if my 40th birthday were meant to be traumatic then this was the point where the “faded glory” + old people with walkers should have crushed me. The symbolism was beautiful!)

We followed that with Mother’s Beach Pub and Grill, a biker-friendly bar that served Pabst Blue Ribbon in Mason jars and had a jukebox that seemed to contain only Guns N’ Roses and The Doors. “This is the end / Beautiful friend / This is the end…” It did appear to be a family-friendly place since the only other couple was getting hammered while watching their kid in a stroller. As our waitress said (while describing her trailer lifestyle), “It’s just like Jerry Springer.”

And so we closed out the night at the Shamrock Irish Pub, the least Irish bar I’ve ever stepped foot in. The closest they had to an Irish beer was Yuengling—and that’s made in Pennsylvania! Add to that the horrid crime of electronic darts and I was forced to question their Gaelic heritage. Only a finely grilled cheese sandwich forces me to have a little warmth in my heart for them.

And then some public transportation to take me home in time to tuck the kids in.

So that sums up what interests me at 40—slightly weird experiences that seem symbolic yet won’t let me get at exactly what they mean. I couldn’t have asked for anything better or more fitting.