>So, this week was my birthday. I turned 28. I am not so sure how I feel about this age but let me tell you this: I feel about 12, but I’m obviously 28. Wierd.
Let me just start off by saying I am so greatful for the wonderful things in my life. I am employed. I have awesome parents. Great friends. A kick-ass dog that I secretly love more than most humans. I live in my own place with my own rules and my own messes. I don’t have much in the way of responsibility. I am NOT a parent, nor do I have to take care of anything other than the space that I live in and the dog that I love and the occasional plant that I kill. I am sooo thankful for the life that I have and the great times that I have with all of the people in it. I am blessed, I am lucky, I am thankful and I am happy to be me.
With that being said…this year feels especially wierd. I feel like my body is getting older, but I am still not any older or more mature than I was this time last year. Not much has really changed for me in the past year. I have had good things happen. Crappy things happen. I pay the same bills, I work the same job and I kind of have the same lifestyle. I don’t have a husband, a baby, a house or any sort of “grown up” things. And all of this is kind of a bittersweet feeling.
I would certainly like all of those things one day (the husband, the kids, the house…the bills), but I realized (after looking through many facebook friends’ profiles) that once you have all of the STUFF, you don’t get to go back. You can’t go back to when you didn’t have all that stuff….GULP! It’s permanent. It’s forever. And it’s FRIGHTENING!
So, yes, I want the husband, the kids, the house and the random doctor bills and all that JAZZ. However, I am pretty sure that if I had all that stuff that I would not be old enough to handle it.
Can anyone please tell me the ‘magical age’ that you receive the gift of ‘maturity?’ The thought of all of those responsibilities somehow makes tonight’s dinner slowly rise in my throat. Frankly, I’m hoping that when I hit that ‘magical age’ that I will either be able to suppress the vomit feeling, own stock in Pepto Bismol or successfully accept the responsibilities of being a ‘real’ adult.
Geez…by this age my grandmother had 3 kids, a husband and a house and when my mom was this age she was packing my lunch and sending me off to Kindergarden. I can’t even commit to sending Guinness to doggie training or commit to going to happy hour on a Tuesday…who am I kidding? I am not an adult. Not even close. I’m a child! I still laugh at fart jokes.
I’m 28 and I’m going on 12.
So here’s to growing up kids!
Cheers to Life!–Bree