Ten years ago, I turned 25 and had a quarter-life crisis. I was not at my best in literally any sense and for some reason I thought I was supposed to have my life together by that age. Now, ten years wiser, I scoff at that quaint little girl who thought life was going to come with some sort of well planned schedule of events. She was a dummy, a downright fool.
The other day my father went to his 50th high school reunion. I have never gone to a reunion but am toying with the idea of my 20th, which will arrive a couple years from now. I can’t imagine a 50th. I can’t imagine a life lived that long. And yet, here I am, growing older every day, and thinking about a time when I was young and stupid and gave absolutely no fucks. Why?
Because it’s almost my birthday!!!
I am a child when it comes to my birthday. When younger, I desired a 13-day celebration of events, gifts, and cards, but found that friends and family get weary if you try to celebrate more than say, a weekend. So, I reigned my greedy little nine-year-old self in and learned to be happy with just the one day.
The only birthday I didn’t look forward to was the aforementioned 25th, where I sobbed on my mother’s couch because life was not going according to plan. Sometime around 30 (which I thought would break me but didn’t) I decided to throw out the plan and try following detours instead. So far, so good, so much better. I absolutely love my 30s, so much so that I am disappointed that they are half over. I even LOOK better now than I did at 25. Everything gets better after your 20s, I cannot stress this enough. My only hope is that in ten more years I can look back and think the same about my 30s.
I don’t have plans for my birthday yet, though I know they will include tacos, cake, and possibly a new purse. It may not last for 13 days but I’m sure it will be memorable, because of the people that I get to spend it with.
And the tacos, cake, and new purse, of course.