(I wrote this crap for my column in the March issue of TS. And I am posting this entry again because today's like bull. I swear, girl. Bull in its utmost sense.)
Ask anyone what comes into mind whenever they come accross the word "March"--they would definitely answer without thinking twice "graduation" or "women's month." Indeed, the third month of the year is marked by these two special occasions. These annual celebrations, however, would only come to me as an afterthought for it is also during this time of the year that I am celebrating my birthday.
To use the word celebrate is actually an exaggeration. I would describe my past few birthdays as rather uneventful. What's so extraordinary about a night-out with friends and friends-of-friends when I practically go out with them every single weekend, anyway? Not that I don't appreciate the time and effort of these people. It's just that I have this annual mind disease that paralyzes me with the mindset that nothing feels worse than waking up on my birthday and realizing that I am not a child anymore.
Perhaps, I still have a foot stuck in the box where all my Barbie dolls and Lisa Frank craze are kept, and for some reason, I can't pull it out. Kids always look forward to their birthdays most probably because of the gifts, food and all the fun surprises and what-nots that comprise a child's party. I used to feel that way too, that is why today, I can't help but wish that I didn't have 21 odd years clattering inside me. When I open my eyes on the morning of my birthday, I'm certain that the same sick feeling will come rushing all over again. Just like last year. And the year before. I always expect that I would feel "my age" on that big day but everything will still remain as is. Just like yesterday. And the day before. The only difference is that on that day, I am another year older.
Right now, it's downright strangehow I do not feel 21 at all. It's a pity how it took me 12 long months (and a deadline set by my editor) to be conscious of my age and finally get used to that fact. Yes, I am already 21 but most of the time, I don't really feel like one. There are days when I get really cranky, and I guess that's the part of me that feels like five. Sometimes, I can't help but blush tremendously when this guy friend I'm secretly crushing on puts his arm aroung my shoulder, and I feel as if I am sweet sixteen once again. Getting our thesis commended and recognized sure feels like that exact moment when my teacher in pre-school handed me my very first star for a job well done. Yet, there are also instances when I ball my eyes out like a two-year-old just because I committed that beautiful mistake of having my heart broken again. Or I feel the freedom of an 18-year-old from curfews and screened calls. At times, hazy decisions that make me think long and hard the morning after make me go back to the invincible and curious young adult that I've just become. An instance where I have to live alone and I got really sick and there's no one to look after me--that sure feels as if I'm three.
On the 19th day of this month, I will be turning 22. I know I will definitely not feel like one until I'm almost 23. It will take a while before it finally sinks in. The looming 22 tells me that I must quickly leave this place and be in the world of grown-ups. There's no room for feeling five or nine or sixteen or twety. Only twenty-two. The real world. That's where I should and must be.
One of my favorite author, Sandra Cisneros once wrote, "What they don't know about birthdays, and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one." She nailed it. That's exactly how I feel. Yes, I am 21-years-old. And I am underneath the years that makes me 21. Whether I turn 22.. 25.. 37.. 50.. or 86, age is just a number that marks one's existence. I can be as young or as old as I feel.
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