One more month

Yesterday I realized that my birthday is coming up in a month, and got all giddy for about 30 seconds. Not many people seem to get excited about birthdays past the iconic age of 21, but I think they continue to serve as a reliable, yearly milestone. Much more so than January 1st, anyway. I bet you’ve all forgotten your New Year’s Resolution (capitalized because this year you’ll really stick to it, you mean it), just like I have. I suppose I could scroll back through old blog posts to find out what it was – likely something to do with reading more. I haven’t done so bad on that front, actually. My standards are set low, so my one completed book makes me pretty happy. (Snow Flower and the Secret Fan – it was just okay).

I’m particularly enjoying this Sunday because I’m typing this from bed, with a gigantic mug of coffee next to me. The mug says Cipramil in bold green letters. I’ve been meaning to look it up, and finally did – it’s the UK equivalent of Celexa, an SSRI used to treat major depression. I think coffee is equally, if not more, effective. 

But back to birthdays. I remember, in my awkward middle school years, spending the week before the annual cake-for-breakfast day drafting self-improvement plans for the year ahead, usually through something superficial like buying new jeans that would be long enough for my gangly legs or using my grandma’s birthday money to buy the latest JANE eyeshadows (still miss that brand). This would become a tradition, though I abandoned the list-making probably in high school. My birthday became a day for me to think about what I want to do differently, and why.

I don’t think I ever got to the “how” part, though, and this is probably why I spent year after year not really feeling any different. In many ways, I’m still the awkward middle-schooler, looking toward improvement but having only a vague idea of what will get me there (answer: it’s not eyeshadow). 

This year, I’d rather just be happy. I want to spend more Sundays lounging in bed, drinking my big mug of anti-depressant coffee, and appreciating the idea of nowhere to be, nobody to become. John says I’ll change the way I feel about birthdays once I turn 30, but I don’t think so. I have two more years to prove him wrong, though.

 

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