Monday, July 23, 2012

It's My Party And I'll Blog If I Want To

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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