Okay, so let’s talk birthdays. Birth. Days. To break it down, these are days designed for a person (or
group of persons) to reflect upon and celebrate the messy and miraculous occasion
of one person’s birth.
Our first birthday is typically just that. A day that purely
and simply celebrates the existence of life. It is also the one time during
childhood that we are allowed (for about a split second) to reach towards an
open flame without getting our hands slapped and then, as if that were not
enough, permitted to plant our faces into the beautifully iced cake that our
mothers and aunts took such great pains to perfect. We are forgiven these small
transgressions on this day because everyone is so overcome by the wonder of our reaching
tiny fingers and smiling messy faces. Of the blessing that is each of our lives.
Our first birthdays are saturated with gratitude for merely existing
(imperfect as we are) but every year it becomes less and less so. Until
eventually, we forget that it was us we were celebrating, and as a result birthdays
become something else entirely. They become the competition for the biggest party. The best
theme. The most expensive presents. Each year we live varies in weight of
significance.
10 was important. Reaching the proverbial land of double
digits and whatnot. But then 11 was just 11, and all we really wanted was to be
16. We yearned for the day we could drive anywhere in the world we wanted--
completely on our own-- just so long as we made it home by 10 o’clock curfew.
And then, nevermind 17, we wanted to be 18—to be free to stay out late, or get married, or have a baby (or not have
a baby), or drop out of school or do whatever
without anyone’s authority reigning over us. We wanted to be listened to even though we didn't know what we were saying. We wanted to vote in presidential
elections even though we had no clue what we were voting for. We wanted to become our own.
And finally, when freedom wasn’t enough, then there was 21. The
day we could drink and…oh right, just drink. The supposed motherload of
birthdays—unless you were me. In which case turning 21 really wasn’t terribly
exciting. Not in the way most people would consider it, anyway.
It was this way for two reasons: First and foremost, I’m not
a big drinker. Never have been. Just don’t like the taste of it. Secondly, having
had an incorrectly documented date of birth on my birth certificate (and
consequently on all of my other legal documents) I didn’t legally turn 21 until
23 days after my birthday. Which meant that, by the time I could buy alcohol,
the novelty had already warn off.
So instead of laying my shit bare for a bunch of random
strangers in a string of bars for my monumental 21st I went out to dinner at a nice
restaurant with a small group of close friends. And then, I am not ashamed to say, I spent the rest of that
Tuesday evening writing papers in my annex of a dorm room with a six pack of
Amber Woodchucks that had been purchased by someone else. And, all in all, it
was lovely. In fact, I'd do it again.
But really, if one buys into the socially
dictated stigmas of birthdays, 21 is where the excitement both starts and stops. After 21 people stop counting birthdays.
(Sure, 25 you can rent a car—but who is holding their breath for that?) In fact,
some even start to dread their birthdays. 30 just means you are ten years older
than 20 and your uterus is getting rusty. 40 you try to start counting
backwards all the while praying no one notices. We forget that what we are
celebrating has nothing to do with the expectation of whatever it is that is
commonly associated with the age we are turning.We forget that what we are celebrating is that we came to be alive, and that
we are still alive.
Today is my 22nd birthday. And though it is in no way recognized as a
milestone (or even relevant) birthday, I feel like celebrating. Not because this
day carries more weight than any other, but because it is equal in importance
to any other day (including my first and last).
I have 21 years' worth of blessings under my belt, and not
enough appreciation to show for it. Very recently I came to a point where I found myself staring my ingratitude in the face and it was uncomfortable-- to say the very least. Over the past 21 years I
have spent an absurd amount of time complaining about circumstances I could have improved at any given time if only I had tried a bit harder (more on that in my next blog). I have come to the conclusion that I do not want to live my
life like that anymore---always assuming there will be more time to do the things I want/need to do.
And so, on this 22nd anniversary
of my life, I am renouncing my right to complain, and am instead claiming
authority over the things that make me unhappy. And, in accordance with that, I am stripping
out the perversions and poisons in my life, and I am infusing my life with
beautiful things that I have always wanted for myself but have never been brave
enough to take.Not material things. But spiritual things. Healthy things. Artful things. Things
that will enhance my experience of being so much more than an evening of vodka
and cranberries. (And, what’s more, I’m going to write about it. Because I love
to write, dammit. And even if no one reads it, I will have written. And that really is all that matters, I think.)
So, here’s to opening and upward. Here is to twenty-two.
If you’d like to see why 22 is significant, stay tuned.
-s
