Next month, it’s my birthday. Hooray? I’ve always found it weird we celebrate getting one year older as we slowly inch closer to old age. Hell, I’m still young as a baby in some people’s eyes. To get old is to be wiser, yet long for days long gone.
Tragic, yet, moving. Nonetheless, I was asked if I was going to get hammered on my birthday. I uttered a resounding, but firm — no. I’ve long passed by those foolish years of outraged and wild partying, so much so I couldn’t imagine doing it now.
Fun fact: I’ve largely believed I was invincible up until the end of last year and the first quarter of 2020. I’m imperfect teetering on grandiose that my own near bouts of death hadn’t shaken my superhuman complex.
This year, I found out I’m quite vulnerable. Injuries don’t require the painful but darkened bruises and trips to the hospital are always urgent and unwelcomed.
Hell, getting old and someday dying isn’t the part that scares me. Not being able to do everything I have planned does and frequently keeps me up at night. I don’t need infinite time on Earth, just better plans and ways to reach them. It’s the enigma that causes minds to wander into confusion as answers remain vague.
This year gave me too much to think about. I’ve dreaded being home indoors all this time and somehow, I was wrong.
What’s that stupid saying? Keep calm. Carry on. Later world.