I’m a day late [on my deadline] and another year older [in exactly one week]. I have a lot to reflect on and even more to look forward to. First and foremost, I want to give a shout-out to my anxiety for being consistent AF this past year. With that, I have to give “mad props” (are we still using that phrase?) to my girlfriend for consistently dealing with the aforementioned anxiety and constantly reminding me of how incredibly lucky I am. Another shout-out goes to my cats, Luna and Celine-Dion, who continue to keep my heart warm and occasionally give it palpitations.
The last year of my twenties is on the horizon, my friends. Any advice? Because 28 was a bit of a doozy. Don’t get me wrong, it definitely had some solid highlights: I went to my 10-year high school reunion, I celebrated three years of doing “it” with the love of my life (“it” being love AND the sex,) and I performed a Beyonce song with three of my favorite human beings in front of over 1,000 other humans I’m not completely familiar with yet … just to name a few. On the other hand, I did lose some friends. They didn’t die, but they must be under the impression that I have. Alas, I have not, but the lesson hath been learned. The old friends are still invited to my funeral, of course. I’d like them to be pallbearers so they can let me down one last time.
Year 28 was also the age that I finally got my allergy-ridden ass to the doctor, who confirmed that I’m allergic to everything including (but by no means limited to) my own cats. And according to the bill they sent me, it seems I am also allergic to keeping money in my bank account.
I’ve fully given up on shaving my legs; however, I will wax from the knee down for special occasions. One of those “special occasions” was just a couple weeks ago when I had the honor of standing next to my best friend as she married her [other] best friend. Not to toot my own horn, but the newlyweds were introduced to each other by yours truly. That’s right, I’m basically an accredited matchmaker now … if said accreditation is given after merely one successful match-job (toot, toot). So the answer is “yes,” I am available for hire, and the only guarantee is your money back because I’m most likely the one-hit-wonder of matchmaking.
That being said, it was a lovely day to celebrate the love of two people who are now contractually obligated to love each other forever. It was also a day of realization. For example, I realized that there are still straight white guys who cannot handle the fact that two pretty ladies are in a relationship and have absolutely no interest in a threesome, even if you ask three times. I also realized that eight or more White Claws will FUCK. YOU. UP.
As I live my last few days as a 28-year-old and transition into the ripe ol’ age of 29, I find myself imagining what is to come, considering what I would like to achieve, and perhaps sprinkling a little bit of wishful thinking as well. Much like my previous years as a legal adult, I’m sure it will fly by, so I’m going to try extra hard to stop and smell the roses, and probably sneeze because I’m allergic. I’ve put up quite the wall after particular events in my life and I would like to spend the next year building my drawbridge; I shouldn’t shut everyone out because of what other assholes did or didn’t do. And with that, I have to refresh myself on the whole “forgive and forget” practice because if there’s one thing I’ve learned at 28, it’s that not everyone will apologize or even acknowledge wrongdoing. And that’s just OK.
No more bullshit! I won’t give it, I won’t take it and I won’t stand by it. Life is too short and the majority is too miserable to perpetuate the bullshit further. There are people being paid to do that now. I want my 29th year on this earth to be filled with love and laughter and good people that bring out the best in each other. The times have changed, my friends, and that means we need to put a little more effort into spreading the good-good instead of treading in the Olympic-size pool of misery. I will try if you will. Deal? Deal.
