I don’t know why we celebrate the anniversary of our debuts on earth, except to the end that, Hey.
We’ve come a long way, baby.
The love of two people; the labor of two legs, or the toil of two forceps.
That raisin-faced creature has emerged from her amniotic cocoon.
Now she welcomes giftings and attentions on a date over which she had no choice or control.
I don’t know why we celebrate the full lap we’ve made around the sun, when defying gravity was never an option nor planet-hopping in the realm of maybe-could-bes. Or was it? Maybe we all feel, crouching toward another candle on the Funfetti cupcake– We’ve been pushing forward and upward from the magnet threatening always to hold us still. Laws of motion we memorized, thinking as they only applied to roller skates and tennis balls. Today I mark my 35th lap around the topographic track. I hope there is still air in my lungs sufficient to blow out those many tapers.
I am the sum total of all these cavities and misconceptions, tax deductions and torrid dreams. I am 35 years-young, eligible now to vote myself into the Oval Office, at-risk for every health malady, ashamed for having not read so much of Toni Morrison and Thomas Wolfe. Perhaps I am already middle age, aged, an elder, older than I feel, mature, seasoned, in possession of a skincare regimen that is altogether age-defying.
I love getting older because the arbitrariness of aging–the very thing we don’t do on purpose that we are yet hellbent on celebrating with a thick layer Funfetti as if we do–accompanies all the glory of things we do on purpose: sipping and spooning and cry-laughing; reading and writing and punching our tickets at the museum; sleeping in and reading until our eyes go googley late at night; dancing and singing and running our aging guts out.