As a kid, the countdown to my birthday was a long, drawn out event. I got excited when I realized that my library books would be due on my birthday, or after it. I got excited when the milk's expiration date was after my birthday, or when the calendar flipped over to August, and you could see the sixth with a big circle around it, with exclamation marks.
Now, my birthday doesn't have quite the same zest it once had. I had even forgotten about it until my mom called last night, saying that they're thinking about coming down and visiting me, and seeing if I was busy. I said I didn't have anything planned (I don't work on Mondays) and it took me a few moments to remember that, hey, I'm turning 23 in a week.
I'm not entirely looking forward to it. It's one thing to be a 22 year old college graduate who's futzing around, looking for a career, but that recent-graduate status is slowing turning into 'graduated last year.' I know that for everyone over the age of, say, twentyfive, the difference is barely noticable, semantic even, but it's kind of a big deal.
I don't really have a career, I work hourly. I don't have an achieved master status, which is kind of resulting in a half-identiy crisis slash quarter life crisis. Sure, I'm hoping to go to grad school next fall, but I can't really call myself a student anymore. I'm just someone else in the uninsured, paycheck to paycheck workaday grind. And it's not a whole lot of fun.
I don't know why, but the birthday is the big symbol for all of that. And poo on that. Longtime readers will note that my birthdays have always been shitty, from me getting into a car accident to developing food poisoning to my dad having a heart attack the day before. So I'm thinking about lying low and not celebrating my birthday, and not making the switch to twenty-three.
Or how my dad puts it "I've been turning thirty-nine for the past fourteen years!"
