Unless you're a kid, of course. Birthdays are wonderful things if you're under a certain age. These days, one of my favourite aspects of my birthday - which is today - is having a legitimate excuse to reminisce about the era of pool parties, Dairy Queen cake and tantalizing anticipation surrounding what could be inside all those colourful packages.
Naturally, I never made an effort to mindfully appreciate the benefits of being the lucky kid with the summer birthday while they lasted, and when I found myself with work obligations for the first time at 17 it felt as though a grave injustice had been committed against me.
I'm over all that now, but a new concern has emerged in the last few years in the form of apprehension surrounding my perceived lack of life accomplishment in relation to the number of candles that appear on the cake. Or would, if the cake was large enough to hold them. I'm told these feelings are unwarranted - that they are the product of my over-achieving, anxiety-ridden mind. This could be true, but being aware of the possibility does little to alleviate such worries.
Today I turn 28. I know that probably seems young to many of you, but to me it means that I can no longer get away with claiming to be "in my mid-20s." "Late 20s" means almost 30, and for my generation 30 is widely considered to symbolize adulthood proper - a scary thought for many of us given the state of the world these days.
The physical effects of aging don't scare me quite as much - at least not yet. Since I was a teenager, people have generally assumed I'm younger than I actually am. More often than not, this has been a source of frustration as it I've needed to work extra hard to get them to take me seriously. It's also a little annoying to be constantly carded at the LCBO, and once in the not too distant past, the movie theatre. No joke.
Conversely, I have to cringe whenever I hear someone claim you can tell a woman's age by her hands. If that's true, I must be well into my golden years with my bony, chapped hands and crooked fingers - this despite the fact that I only completed my first full day of actual physical labour last week at Patchwork Gardens farm. At this rate, I'll be indistinguishable from the crypt keeper by 40 to proponents of the "age by hands" thesis.
Lately I've also had a number of people mistake me for my mom's sister. She insists that such comments are made only in search of a bigger tip, but all the same I'm never quite sure how to take them. I want to look more mature, but do I really want to look like I could be the sister of a 52-year-old?
Whether people assume I'm older or younger than I am, though, the fact remains that I have had enough birthdays in my life to know that the onus is on me alone to make the most of them. They may no longer include holidays, pool parties or showers of presents, but as of today I still have 731 long days left of socially-imposed adolescence. (Seeing as 2012 is a leap-year.) On the other hand, a little more officially recognized maturity isn't such a bad thing either. Who knows, maybe 28 is the perfect age after all.
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