I wouldn't dream of wearing a bikini. I'll never again wear a miniskirt. My knees pop and my back aches. I need makeup to cover the dark circles under my eyes. I'm not as young as I once was, but that's alright with me.
Aside from the obvious--that getting older is better than the alternative--I am pleased to be in my forties. I believe that age and experience have made me more confident, with less self-doubt or concern about what others think of me. I believe they have made me more compassionate. With experience comes empathy. I believe they have made me wiser. I don't think I know it all, and that is the most useful form of wisdom I know.
Do I wish I could have the knowledge and confidence of forty with the body I had at twenty? Of course. But I haven't run across any wish-granting genies, so that's not going to happen. I don't have a choice. If we did, the twenty-year-old me would have chosen to remain as she was. This forty-something me will choose to do the same. I can't stay up all night anymore, I can't hold my liquor the way I once did, and buying a pair of jeans is a dreaded event. Instead, I'm older and wiser and little worse for wear, but I'm happy for the trade-off. Just imagine how great I'll be at sixty.