The trouble with birthdays is that they point out you’re getting older.
Since my last birthday, I feel like I’ve done some cool stuff. Grown as a person and as a writer. But still, it really bummed me out that I was turning 28. (I just lost every friend 28 and older who reads this blog)
I was talking about this with a friend of mine about a month ago. It was her birthday, and she was mourning how ancient she’d become.
“How old are you?” I asked
“You know I’m a year older than you. I’m 28.”
“You’re-” the pinwheel of death appeared in my brain, and I had to force-quit several other thoughts to make it go away. “But hang on. If you’re 28, then that means-”
So the good news is that I just turned 27, and can now confirm that putting one less candle on your cake than expected is one of the best presents ever.
The bad news is I’m gonna go get myself tested for early-onset Alzheimer’s. Cause I’m not getting any younger, and I just forgot how freaking old I was.