Aahh, the last hours of August are upon us. Soon it will be September and while Green Day asks us [again] to wake them up when it ends, I will be using this month for reinvigorating my mind and soul. That sounds much deeper than I mean it to be, but it sounds more refreshing than “getting my sh** together for the thousandth time.”

September is my favorite month. And not just because it marks the beginning of school, the regular dance season, the start to football, and the end of summer and the sweltering humidity that I could do without for the rest of my life. Tucked between these gems and the warm fall days of September is my birthday.

I’ve had a strange, love/hate relationship with my birthday. The “hate” part has come in my “later” years, I would say probably after 19 – with the short exception of my 21st birthday. I really dread getting older now that I’ve reached an age that I’m content with being for the rest of my life. 19 and 20, well let’s throw 18 in there too I guess, were years when my life seemed in place and whole. Precious, you could call them. 21 was wonderful for legal reasons, but only for a few months. After that, the newness wore off and it was just as impressive to be 21 as it was to be that 40 year old in the bar out-drinking everyone; nobody’s buying you drinks or putting up with your drunkenness unless you’re broke or if it’s Wine Night. Yes, capital “W,” capital “N.”

I spent my 22nd birthday in my cute upstairs apartment on Long Island, surrounded by flowers sent to me and probably some homework. That was the first birthday I spent hundreds of miles away from anyone who had known me longer than a month, although it didn’t feel strange to me. Thus began my anti-climactic birthdays (or so I believe).

23 is looming close by, and while I am trying not to think about it too much, I can’t help it mostly because I’m still wildly excited for my birthday to be here. That’s what I’ll hold onto most, especially since 22 is slipping out of my grasp: being excited about the day that marks my life in years passed. The latter part of 21 brought so many changes with it, mostly unpredictable and challengingly beneficial changes, and that stayed true for 22. I am excited to delve into deeper challenges when 23 comes around, because I’m starting to realized I have a lot of my life in tact; together. And that’s becoming boring and mindless (at least it is for me). So to get a kick start on my impending age increase I’m going to “get it together” by becoming more dedicated first and foremost to my blog; while that may not seem too scandalous, taking blogging – and my writing – more seriously is something I’ll regret not doing, and with this comes some sacrifices I won’t delve into here. I need a little stress in my life, it’s too easy without it. I’m also going to become more dedicated to myself. Making choices based solely on how I feel is not always my first route, but it needs to be. And finally, but most importantly, I need to stop talking, and start doing.

So come at me 23, although I’m terrified of you. Bring on your challenges, your stresses, your positivity, and I guess I’ll [slowly and painfully] let go of 22. Goodbye August, hello September.

 

%d bloggers like this: