My, what a difference a year makes.
Last year, I had you by the throat, sucker. You were writhing and whimpering and begging for mercy. And yet, my inner benevolent being would not spare you.
Instead, I drove a satisfying stake through your smug smirk, and then pummeled you with my own fists, just to be sure you couldn’t and wouldn’t be resurrected.
And as you lay there, still as a stone, I cackled with glee at the triumph of my victory – your defeat – and heaved the weight of my jubilant footsteps upon your cold, lifeless body with pleasure.
Oh, how you didn’t scare me, 30.
You were pregnant with possibility, a brand-spankin’-new infant of a decade, primed for my nurturing, my molding, my encouraging, my blossoming.
If life is Seattle (which it is, in my head), then I should’ve known. The thrill of the unexpected, tangential sunshine is always, inevitably, chased away by the predictable rain.
And what goes 30 must go 31.
With 31 looming on the horizon (no, today is not my birthday, but eventually, it will be, Sherlock), it’s hard to see past the cumulonimbus (I learned something in elementary school science class!) on the twitchy horizon this go ’round.
What is it about 31 that makes me lose sleep?
The inching. The inching toward real, bona fide aging.
I know I’m supposed to age gracefully, according to Oil of Olay and Dove and Nice ‘n Easy. But the truth is, I’m not going to. Like anything, I’m going to kick, scream, and claw all the way down the calendar. Because I refuse to age. I just don’t want to do it.
I don’t want to embrace the wrinkles deepening themselves around my eyes and on my knuckles. I don’t want to get further and further away from my perception of being young. I don’t want to watch the chasm widen between me and people in their 20s. I don’t want to one day find myself out of touch with the world of technology or music or spontaneity. I don’t want to make excuses for my hiccuping memory or my body’s inability to complete the task I assign to it.
I just don’t want to get old, that’s all.
Some people can do it, this aging thing. And they can defy it better than their days of textbook youth. But for someone like me, whose entire persona is based upon her youthfulness, what happens when, suddenly, you’re actually careening toward not youthful?
It was such an age of power, that 30 thing. So balls-to-the-wall, try-to-stop-me, catch-me-if-you-can, choke-on-my-dust, so…mine.
But I’m not delusional, and I’m almost not 30 anymore.
I’m all for a hearty game of pretend, but I think my birth certificate will be sitting out this roll of the die. Because this year, I’m not acknowledging the fact that I’m gaining a ring on my trunk. In fact, I’m staying exactly the same until further notice. Of which you will get none, mind you.
I won’t miss you, cake. I won’t miss you, party. You’re a negligible sacrifice to remain at the dawning of my own Aquarius age forever.
Birthday? What birthday? I’m eternal. Don’t argue with me.
And swish swish! That’s the end of that. Carry on.