Happy Birthday

I wonder what it is that makes a birthday sort of sad.

It must have a lot to do with expectation. You expect that it's going to be this really special day and it ends up not only being rather small and not having any special treatment but then it also serves to remind you that you're closing the gap on your wanton youth and the unnerving banality of middle age.

It's unnerving because there's nothing banal about my life.
For all intents and purposes, except for emotional and intellectual maturity, my impending middle age is looking a lot like the youth of most middle class Americans.


Let's tally the demographic points:
1. I live alone without adequate furniture. I have plans to remedy that but it's not going to be in an expensive, impressive way. I also suck at decorating so it's likely that try as I might, I may never transcend College Chic.

2. Alone. Did I mention alone? It's not even remotely always a bummer to be single but I'm woman enough to own up about the clock and it's insidious ticking.

3. Stereotypes. I am a stereotype. I am that nice girl in that other department who is a little chubby and who talks about her pets a lot. You know she probably has something fun going on in her outside life that you don't know about but basically, she's a modern-day spinster who watches a lot of movies from the comfort of her bed since there's nothing else to sit on in her apartment.

Although there are a number of exciting and cool things in my life, a birthday is a sort of glass-half-empty day for me.

I want to rewind time and do some things just a little differently or a little sooner; hell - I'd even take a fast forward to the time when I won't be alone and struggling with the same conversations of disappointment with which I've struggled in every romantic entanglement.

Too bad for me on those birthday wishes.

I'm here and that's irrevocably that.

arizonasarah at 12:18 p.m.

previous | next