I’m finding myself looking forward to my
upcoming birthday more than usual. Growing up, I almost dreaded my birthdays.
Getting older didn’t bother me. The celebrations were the trouble. I was so
settled in my own little bubble, I didn’t know what to do with my meager supply
of friends and lack of interest in group activities. My parents usually just
took me to the movies sans friends.
For my seventeenth birthday, I got that
happy, fuzzy feeling when I had enough acquaintances to have a normal party (I
got 11 attendees!). Which was nice and all, but I found myself mainly hanging
back and soaking in my perceived popularity instead of joining in very much.
My last birthday consisted of a low key
affair that I’m more suited for and I’m planning on repeating with my
nineteenth. So I’m not anticipating being the center of attention at a big
shindig.
Personally, I believe eighteen is
starting to feel like a naïve age that I want to outgrow. I started it out
feeling all mature and like I actually had my shit together. Then, I finally
entered the dating scene and realized that I’m probably not as mature as I
thought I was. For one, I went fairly far with any guy who provided an
opportunity (there were only three, I only had sex with two and not a single
one was very good). I put up with far too much shit in my first relationship
with a guy I wasn’t that attracted to, all because he had a British accent and
momentum, I guess. Then, I had my first encounter with a fascinating creature
known as The Player™. I managed to (temporarily, thank God) fuck up my
interactions with dad due to the aforementioned British Asshole. Word to the
wise; make sure your minority boyfriend is worth it before you mention him to
your racist Southern father. And I went my entire freshman year of college
without finding That Place Where I Belong. I didn’t find any clubs or groups
where I fit in, Craft Club notwithstanding. I’m the secretary and I don’t even
fucking craft. I made a trapezoid pretending to be a scarf two years ago and
that’s about it. I made a total of one friend (who I happen to love, btw) and
that’s just because the stress of dealing with British Asshole has the same
bonding experience as war.
Maybe I think being nineteen help my
character judgment and prevent fuckups in my personal life, not likely. That
I’ll be transformed into this cool, mature possibly sophisticated person with
her shit actually together. Someone who goes forth into the world and interacts
with people and is Part of Something Larger than Herself, without joining some
creepy religious cult.
Logically, I know
that day is going to come and go without magically making me the person I want
to become. But it can mark the passage of another year closer to me finally
meeting that person.
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