Yep, it’s that time of year again. Sigh….
Usually, I don’t mind my birthday (having a birthday is better than the alternative, right?), but last Saturday at my dojo’s kickboxing tournament, I looked around and thought, “wow, am I the oldest one still doing this?”
I know that’s not the case, and even if it was, I should be proud of it–not embarrassed–but there’s something unnerving about getting to an age that makes people gasp in disbelief. Yes, people, it’s true. I have lived that long. There is life after thirty (and after twenty, for that matter).
I’ve decided to face my birthday curse head-on and pack the weekend with fun plans, if only to keep me from delving into lonely introspection. I’m proud of my twenties: I started a successful business; spent a month in Africa on assignment; sowed my share of wild oats; lived with a friend, a lover, and on my own (not all at once); ventured into the corporate world; and saw my bylines on the front page of a major newspaper. In short, I really lived. But what have my thirties been about?
It’s not like I haven’t accomplished a thing in this decade, but there’s still so many aspects of my life where I haven’t seemed to make any progress. No published books. I’m still living in the same place I vowed to leave. No fights in the ring (hopefully that will happen this fall). But I am almost out of debt, so that’s something, and I’m surrounded with much better people. In any case, I have a lot of work ahead to make this decade of my life truly memorable.
I hope that, by my next birthday, I’ll be able to look back and say, “Wow, look at all I accomplished!”
Until then, let us eat cake.