Birthdays are always interesting. They are either exciting and joyous, or miserable and filled with anxiety. I used to look forward to my birthday the way all little kids should--giddy with anticipation, excitement for the fun and the possibilities for being a year older. One day, a special day just for me (and my twin sister), to be showered with extra love and attention (and presents!). Birthday parties increased the excitement, with friends and games, puppet shows, clowns, and cake (and lots of presents!). Who could possibly NOT like their birthday?
As I got older, I started to get it: I was getting older. Older = less fun and more responsibilities. Birthday parties fell by the wayside as real life interfered with birthday fantasy land, but to me, there was still something exciting about a birthday. Throughout college, I would go out to dinner with friends and to a movie. Meet my sisters for cake and coffee. Go to a show with my parents. One year, all my friends got together and bought me a bracelet from Tiffany’s. (The next year, ironically, they all forgot my birthday. I’m mostly over it. Mostly.) For my 24th birthday, I threw my own party, complete with homemade mini-eggrolls and meatballs and martini glasses I bought to complete my makeshift bar. And then I turned 25.
My 25th birthday was about a week before I was leaving New York for my new job in Atlanta, so I had a combined Birthday/Going Away party at one of our favorite hangouts. We all toasted each other and ate our double-decker grilled cheese sandwiches, and then it hit me. I was 25 years old. Panic gripped me and I reached for the nearest beverage to cool my throat as I started to freak out. Unfortunately, I had grabbed my friend’s Long Island Iced Tea and, as I coughed and sputtered, I wondered how it was that I had turned 25 with a blink of an eye. It was the Ultimate Birthday; I had a whole new life to look forward to, the magic of a birthday I had always loved, and suddenly, I didn’t want it. I wanted to stay 24, with my same life, my same job, where even if I wasn’t so happy all the time, at least I knew where I stood. At least everything was familiar. At least I wasn’t 25.
25 invokes a real grow-up age. You are no longer a “young adult,” or even an “early 20s.” You are 25. You are a Real Person. After years of complaining about being treated like a kid, that was suddenly all I wished for. I wanted to go to bed and hide under the covers until it was over. But then I would be turning 26. Another year older. Hiding under the covers and reverting back to being 7 was not going to happen.
So here I am, a few days shy of 26 and totally freaking out. What happened to all the things I was going to do with my life? Get my Masters in Social Work. Get my Masters in Public Administration. Lose weight. Write a book. Be successful. Make a difference. Get married! What have I done? Cher famously warbled “If I could turn back time…” Well, you can’t turn back time. You can’t go back and get a rewrite. You can only take comfort in your successes, resolve to make up your failures, and look forward to the new year of the new you, older and hopefully a little wiser.
Thanks Jack for your assistance!
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2 comments:
don't worry, you're not old. :)
At my job, most of the women I work with who tutor with me, are much older than me. They give me hope. They have had very long and fascinating lives. It's never too late to do anything. Okay, maybe I'm never going to be a fashion illustrator or a firefighter but there are ways to incorporate these things into my life (well, not the firefighter bit but in my defense, I was 5).
We have a long life ahead of us, I hope, and we will write those books, celebrate many birthdays and I'll even learn to answer my damn phone and stop being so antisocial!:)
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