last week my mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday.
“to pretend I’m still 23.”
I know. I know. I’m not supposed to say that at my age. to me, though, 24 feels more mature, more adult than 23. but am I more mature, more adult? I still feel like I just graduated from college. 23-years-olds just graduated from college, not 24-year-olds.
when I mentioned this feeling to my friend chelsea, adding that I didn’t feel like I’m where a 24-year-old is supposed to be, she said “according to who?” thank you, chelsea. I usually have a firm grasp on the fact that I’d prefer to take the road less traveled. blaze a path and leave a trail. yet somehow when confronted with a finite age, it feels as though I should be on the same 9-to-5 roller coaster as some of my peers.
so I resisted my birthday. but I couldn’t forget. each day that I checked into yoga last week, the teacher greeted me with “happy birthday!” as my membership card triggered a computer reminder for such a greeting. every day except my actual birthday. I was relieved to have escaped an impending announcement to the whole class. and the sing-along we had in class to journey’s “don’t stop believing” was much rousing than “happy birthday” would have been.
despite my negative birthday attitude, I enjoyed a lovely dinner with my family. and my mom, who probably couldn’t throw a small party to save her life, organized a memorial day gathering to celebrate. apparently when you poo poo your own birthday, the universe turns around and says, “oh, you better believe you’re going to party.”
it was an evening filled with:
sometimes the universe knows exactly what you need.