birthday – Yzagada

So my hooman turned a year older today. She’s convinced herself she’s still 21 so I’m letting her indulge in this fantasy. Just for today.

I know that for some reason, she was dreading the advent of this day. Who does that? I love birthdays! Most people love birthdays! But I guess she’s not most people.

I delight in birthdays because it means a cake, presents, and I’m treated like a boss. They give me a pass for chewing the couch or they hand me an extra rasher. For my mom though, she claims birthdays somehow make her wistful. These remind her of what ifs, of missed opportunities, of sky dives that never happened, and the worst decisions she’s made. Boy, it must be tough being a grown-up.

The pact she made with herself to Angelina Jolie herself a brown-eyed, freckly baby that doesn’t drool or gurgle when she turns 28 never came to fruition. She’s seen that age come and go but she ended up having me instead and this cheeky little bugger I call my younger brother. (We fart and barf, that’s a better deal methinks.) I know too that aside from us, she has devoted herself to other fur babies. Humans are strange. They don’t know what they want.

Kojin and I wanted to do something special for her today but the best we could manage was to refrain from having diarrhea and not give her another scar mark from excessive nipping and biting. We give her ‘ruff’ love.

Today she went about her daily grind. Three-hour commute back and forth to work. (She doesn’t drive. Too many fenders bent.) Nine-hour shift. Ten pages leafed through a 360-paged textbook. One lottery ticket and another scratch card that was not at all lucky. A conspicuous gray hair plucked from her black mane. One or two candles snuffed out.

She seemed chipper but she cried a little. She pondered why bliss for her age seems to be perpetually pursued. She says it’s a constant effort; that it needs to be chased. I don’t get her. I hound dragonflies and smelly butts, and these make me euphoric. It’s not that complicated. Maybe I ought to take her butt-a-chasin’ next time. Humans are weird. Especially women. Especially women her age.

She says she’ll start doing more favors for herself. Eat healthier, drink lesser. More adventures, less passiveness. More spontaneity, less routine. Be happier, and be impervious to people who make her feel otherwise.

So far she’s managed to turn herself into a flexitarian. Whatever that means. (I call it a cheating vegetarian.) She started running again and does these ridiculous squats that scrunch her face ugly. She can now sleep without having to watch those murder documentaries that she says lull her to oblivion. And she’s withdrawn from drinking soda (but she started drinking beer). She still enjoys her favorite pastime which is to have duets with herself. Cringe-worthy. I guess she’s getting there.

My brothers and I wish her the best today and all the days thereafter. I wish to see her cry lesser. It can get weird seeing her sob when she watches dogs or cats being rescued, or when she sees reruns of the Gladiator. She does say we raise her oxytocin levels when we let ourselves be cuddled. I should not begrudge her those hugs then. I hope she knows that despite constantly chastising herself for her inadequacies and falling short of expectations she’s set for herself, she’s our world. She makes us happy. Happy 21st woman!

Today I woke up feeling apprehensive. I’m a year shy of hitting the big three-O and I feel like the forces are mocking me today; reminding me of those long-forgotten things I jotted in my to-do-list way back yesteryears.

Bold and ambitious, I used to dream about globe-trotting, having a job that won’t be confined to a desk but nonetheless earn enough to afford me a beat-up truck that would enable me and my one-eyed St. Bernard trips to countrysides. I could not wait to skydive, win at a casino, make love with a dashing young man on a hot air balloon, do all things outlandish–live the life.

With youth comes the gifts of vitality, idealism and ambition. But as the reality of life starts biting you past mid-life, one tends to gradually lose these. Work, bills, slowing metabolism, and adding up to the years submit one into an unremarkable routine of waking up to finish a day that would more or less repeat itself the next one. The best things have become catching up on sleep, a new release on Netflix, clocking out after a shift, finding a pair of old jeans with buttons that don’t unexpectedly pop and those rare alarm-less mornings.

And as I am one of the unfortunate species with a brain that reminds me of all the bad decisions I made in my life before I get any chance to fall into oblivion during the end of the day, I often get to think about the current life I am leading and question every single thing. I finally succumb to troubled sleeps with a resolve that I would do something extraordinary the next day but then wake up feeling uninspired. I guess I’m growing old. Or not.

Everyone around me seems to be having babies and growing toddlers while here I am wanting to get another puppy. That does not make me forget that ten or so years ago, I said to myself that if I turn 28 and I’m still single, I would Angelina Jolie a baby of my own. Today though, all I could think of is adopting a rescue dog or cat at the local shelter. Interesting how the years can change you.

I catch Pokemon and give them weird names. I share the bed with my husband and occasionally with our handful Kaidu when he decides the sheets are not as tasty as bacon. I have not started to eat more responsibly; our cupboards hold a full section of food that have the same nutritional value as that of a cardboard which we indulge in ever so often. I’ve reached the age when jammies feel sexier than cropped fitted tees, and my idea of a fun night is watching medieval war movies with a tub of Ben & Jerry’s. I guess I’m growing old. Or not.

Then there’s that guilty excitement of buying new cutlery. A house ware section beckons me more than a clothing department does. I like buying plates at the plate store. I like our salt shaker. I like the sound of our pepper grinder. My Amazon account boasts not of shoe purchases but dog tags and leashes. So adult.

But although I’ve been independent since I left the University, I still have that urge to look for Mama when stuff becomes unpleasant. I guess I’m growing old. Or not.

Now I’m thinking of that way overdue bungee-jump (times ten) and that spontaneous trip to Machu Picchu. If I wake up one of these days feeling less conventional, spontaneous and impulsive, things might start happening, again. And with newfound determination, I end this day. *snuffs candle out*