Birthdays always bring out the nostalgic in me. I am pretty much always in awe of how fast time flies, but a birthday—for me—is that inescapable ticker on the time clock that inspires a bit of hard core reflection. It forces me to look back and feel my years. Not my age in years, but my experiences in years and what I’ve learned from them. Each year of my twenties has been its own chapter in this book of life with a question mark title. And every mini-chapter has brought with it a mega-lesson. At 22, I moved to the city and quickly learned my suburban perspective wouldn’t fly. At 23, I fell in love with an older man and learned how to use public transportation. At 24, I realized age is just a number. At 25, I contemplated marriage. At 26, I discovered that five pounds less or five pounds heavier really never mattered. And during this 27th year, I’ve learned that my mistakes do not define me, nothing is constant and that perhaps I’m a little too nostalgic for my own good.
I am usually the one who celebrates my birthday “month”, takes the week of to plan out a different excursion each night, telling everyone and anyone who will listen that “It’s my birthday!” and then I top it off with some over-the-top fete dedicated to myself. This year, it just didn’t feel right. Of course I’m going to celebrate, be around people who matter and treat myself to a massage and a new pair of shoes (or three). But this year kind of kicked my ass, and I don’t need a big month long celebration to distinguish that.
In fact, I am pretty sure I’m ready for 27 to be done. Yes, I’ve had a great year, but a rough year no doubt. I’ve lived it, I’ve felt it, I’ve dealt with it, and like I said, I’ve learned from it. I launched my own company. I got my heart broken. My company grew. My heart healed. (Sort of.) I moved into an amazing new place in an exciting new neighborhood. I traveled alone. I’ve been privileged to experience Chicago in a ridiculously fabulous fashion. I’ve made a series of mistakes. And have been humbled by a series of accomplishments. I have discovered new friends. I’ve lost old ones. I let go of an amazing guy because I wasn’t ready. I tried managing a friendship with my ex. I learned my parents are my biggest supporters and I am blessed they live 20 minutes away. I have learned to love being alone. I have learned that sometimes I’m not as good at it as I want to be. And somewhere along the way, I’ve garnered some real adult clarity.
Twenty-seven has been the year of the sweet, the bitter, the bittersweet and the bitter pills.
All of this leads me to my 28th point—if you will. I don’t think I would trade in my over-feeling, nostalgic self for anything in the world. Not for thicker skin. Not for a perfect relationship. Not for flawless friendships. Not for easy transitions. Not for the ability to shut people out. Not for the power to stop that ticker on the time clock and turn it back to do things over again differently. Not for an immunity to life’s rollercoaster ride. Nope.
Because that’s what the book is all about—to triumph, to fuck up, to embrace it, to learn your mega-lessons and keep on evolving.
And I think that, no matter how old I get, is always worth celebrating.
