Today I am 28.
I imagine my therapist is exhausted with me. I want to know what other therapy sessions are like but all I have is my imagination (which looks a lot like my therapist having tea with the clients she likes more) and television (someone crying for sixty minutes before having sex with her provider.)
The theme for this year has been: in-between.
I am in the great in-between. I am not quite grown but I am not quite young. I am an adult but I have not quite yet adulted. I am making good decisions but I am not making great ones. I am myself but I have not finished loading. We are committed but we aren’t quite life partners. We are friends but we aren’t quite besties. I’ve done the job but I haven’t quite finished the work.
This is my great discontent. Loading… loading… loading… But you can’t rush the process. Too many people try and fail. This is how we hurt our friendships. This is how we lose our lovers. This is how we set fires to our careers.
Have you ever bitten into a half-cooked potato and pretended like you liked it because you were just so, so hungry?
Twenty-seven was good but only because it wasn’t terrible. Here we are again, in the great in-between. Every conversation, every moment, every success was just a step towards something. It wasn’t something. That might be my problem. Tra la la, life is but a process. You never wind up anywhere. Every little thing is a journey.
Oh bother, today I am 28.
I imagine twenty-eight as the year that the engine revs.
I imagine twenty-eight as the great happening.
I imagine twenty-eight as a book among a shelf of other books. One, two, three, four, all the way to one hundred, each book a year. Book twenty-eight is pulled slightly from the shelf with intention. And I push it back. I line them up, all one hundred books in perfect synchrony. I draw a finger along them with an obsessive eye to test their resiliency. This is the story of my life and it is finally ready to be read.
Today I am twenty-eight.
If I am not yet ready to claim my success, at least I can claim my endeavors. I wrote something. I read something. I loved someone. I made a difference. I grew one limb at a time and walked with one leg taller than the other until I figured out how to run. This was a year. The first full year of living. Umbilical cord cut swinging wildly in space with no tether and I have survived because today I am twenty-eight.