Julia Louis-Dreyfus showed us this week that a middle-aged naked woman can be fun to look at. Her cover photo for Rolling Stone is cheeky, funny, and sexy (and who cares if it’s a teeny bit historically inaccurate?).

I’m going to reveal something here, too. (Don’t worry, no naked photos, I promise.) It feels like a dirty little secret to tell you this. Why is it so hard? I write about my life. I’m a memoirist. I’ve recounted so many embarrassing details about stupid mistakes I’ve made, it should be easy to tell you this one simple fact:

I’m 47. Today’s my birthday.

I can’t hide my age, anyway. I have a 20-year-old son, so nobody’s going to believe I’m 20. Even if I did go through puberty early.

I was feeling bad about this birthday until I read “This Is 57”:

In her blog, Catching Days, Cynthia Newberry Martin makes turning 57 seem so beautiful that I started to look forward to my birthday a decade from now.

Maybe if you read about my 47, you’ll look forward to turning my age, too.

47 is a second marriage, a second career, a second child, a second chance

47 is being grateful to be alive and solvent after early-adulthood medical and financial scares

47 is being done with my education

47 is being mature enough to finally “go home”

47 is knowing how to say no, how to speak up, how to ask questions, knowing that the only way I’m going to find out anything is to ask

47 is having lived a life interesting enough to write about

I was on the plane a few weeks ago and the man next to me asked how old my children are. “If I tell you you’ll guess my age,” I said, then laughed akwardly. But I should have just said, “My children are 10 and 20. And I am 47.”

Maybe that’s the best thing about this age: being finally ready to reveal.

Here I am, with my clothes on but my secret off my chest. This is 47, too: