The Thing With Birthdays

half-eaten-cakeTomorrow is my birthday.

My thirty-second birthday.



I’m entering my thirty-third year.

Pardon my French, but fuck, does that ever look so weird, written out like that.

You know when you look at a word or sentence so long, that it stops making sense?

That’s what that number looks like to me right now.

Complete. Jibberish.

I’m not freaking out, I don’t think. But today I’ve been finding it hard to wrap my mind around it.

Yes, it shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s just another birthday. I should be wearing it as a badge of honour, as a testament that I’ve been lucky enough to even gotten this far in life. Right?

And I did. TWO YEARS AGO. Man, was I boastful about it back then.

But earlier today, my mind did that weird, neurotic, obsessive what-have-I-done audit of my life thus far.

And for everything I see as something I haven’t done, I have to keep myself in check by reminding myself of the things I have been lucky TO do. The things I’ve been lucky to have. And the people I’ve been fortunate enough to have in my life and surround myself with.

But at the same time, I feel like this puny meteorite hurtling through space, knowing there’s nothing I can do about the velocity at which I’m travelling.

And tomorrow will just remind me that I am another year farther away from being a spry, spring chicken.

I can see why people hate birthdays as they get older.