At thirty-nine I’m grateful for my brigade consisting of family and friends who find my birthday important and meaningful, each for their own special reason.
Whether we are twenty-two or thirty-seven or eighty-six, we get to wake up every morning and decide how we want to engage with life.
This is how you get through the week leading up to the day you turn 29 and come one step closer to the big 3-0.
You don’t consult as many people as you used to before making a decision, you can actually trust your gut now.
It’s not that you don’t work out either. You hit the gym three or four times a week but it’s no where near enough to counter the after dinner highway robbery of your willpower and the 7 biscuit ransom being held against you.
One of the best things I’ve learned is that you have to ask for what you want or you’ll never get it. People aren’t mind readers.
My future, once laid out like a colorful map on a child’s restaurant placemat, is now as muddy and dirty as the face of a world-weary hobo. I am in a swimming pool that is lit by youth. I am weary, I am old, I am sailing on a boat made of newspaper, and like the medium itself, I am sinking.
I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, and I felt like I should have decided already.
Adulthood is lonely. It just is.
Adulthood is freedom; it is the freedom to make your own decisions, your own mistakes.