Birthday Blues

This is being written on the last day of the year 2006. It’ll be a new year the next day and in a week, I’ll be another year older. I have a mental age of about 22 or 23 and I would always be a bit surprised upon being confronted with my real age (usually when I have to fill out forms that require my age). Somehow I have managed to forget that I’m getting older with each passing year. Plus being the youngest kid has always given me comfort that there are at least three people from my childhood whom will always be older than me no matter what. Many of my friends and classmates are getting married and starting their own families. I’d think, oh well I still have three sisters ahead of me. (Now only two. And one’s about to get married soon so that leaves me with just one.)

 

This yearly adding a number to my age is finally starting to catch up on me though. There must be something about turning 27 that makes me feel older. Twenty-seven. 27. It sounds so grown up. It looks grown up, staring at me now from the computer monitor. I’m a grown up. I have been for years. Imagine that.

 

But when did it happen? How? When did Christmas start being just another day? When did I graduate from an “ate” to a “tita”? And those little lines on my forehead, around my mouth… there must have been a transition period between not being there and being there, right?

 

As a rule, I do not write poems. I suck at it and I’d like to be all considerate and do the world a favor by not engaging in it. But then it’s the new year and my birthday’s coming up so I figured, I deserve this favor from the world. Sort of like a birthday gift from it. Just this once. Humor me, world, why doncha? Oh, and it’s not really a poem. It’s like a prose-poem. Whatever. Maybe it’s safer not to call it anything. It just is. And if you think it sucks, the two minutes you spent reading it can be your birthday gift to me. But no, you are all still required to buy me something. Anything.

 

So here it is:

 

You are not bringing me down. Not now. When I squeal little girl delight at beribboned gifts handed over to me. And rainbows and plane rides and a text from a cute boy still excite me. And starting a new book. And putting on make up. And playing dress up. Except now, it’s not really playing anymore, is it?

 

I guess not. It’s just dressing up now. And paying the bills. And having insurance. And knowing finance. And hoping, hoping. A lot of hoping.

 

Because I refuse, refuse, refuse to be jaded. Because I stubbornly, stubbornly refuse to

 

So shove it up your ass. You are not going to bring me down. Not now. When a child’s smile can still get me high. And her cute little hands can tug at my heart as she tugs at my sleeves. Not now when I’m reduced to coos and joojoos to get her to smile.

 

So shut up because I refuse, refuse, refuse to be jaded. Because I stubbornly, stubbornly refuse to

 

 

So there. Ugh. I just had to let it out. Come to think of it, I have nothing against growing old. It’s the growing old and jaded that worries me. That, and the growing old and still being lost. But maybe people never really find themselves anyway. It's a constant search that goes on till you're 90 or a hundred. But I'll never really know, right?

 

And yes, I think I am finally acknowledging the fact that I am a grown up. Took me a while, eh?