I wonder why we’re so attached to our birthdays; why we feel such ownership over the day.
They say the sound of your own name is the sweetest sound you can hear (by “they” I mean one of the producers of This American Life, which is where I heard that particular saying). I think the same holds true for birthdays. When I hear June 6 spoken, the same warm tingle passes through my core to the base of my neck as when a lover uses my name to ensnare my attention.
Five hours from when I write this, I’ll be 33. I asked my friend Benjamin what 33 felt like. “Non-descript,” he replied. “Forgettable, really.” I remember so clearly what 32, 31, 30 – and all the years before were like, so I don’t think I’ll have the same experience as him. But when I read many-years old diary entries and look at the names of boys whose names I bothered to write down and and think, “Who was that, and why was I so riled up?” I imagine that’s what thinking about 33 is like for Benjamin.
This past personal year has been quite the adventure, taking me places I never thought I’d go both literally and figuratively – from standing on stage in front of 3000 people to exploring dusty caverns of my mind and welcoming old feelings like long lost friends.
It’s funny. I honestly have no idea what 33 will hold. All I know is I want to keep living, to know that I am enough as I am but not let that stand in the way of me striving for more.