The trouble with birthdays.

The trouble with birthdays: Only one thought had invaded my mind last month as I came to the daunting realisation that my birthday was fast approaching. Ageing had come easily to me during my more youthful years, yet now I was extremely bothered by the thought of having to ‘grow up’ – I was clearly not ready. I was afraid of the responsibility that was to make a sudden entrance. My parents were even suggesting that I move out into a place of my own as if I was: 1. financially stable and 2. had actually done any of my own laundry before. “You’ll thrive with the freedom”, they said. Which is true, especially when you’ve been living with the same people who absolutely don’t know about the meaning of personal space. I digress. As my birthday was approaching, I started questioning my successes the previous year. I had thrived in many ways but I still felt underwhelmed – as if there was more to be done. At times throughout the year, I was teased with glimpses of what my life would be like, but I knew there was still some distances to go. The problem was that I didn’t know how to get there. I plummeted with this depressive thought for a while, even tried to cancel my own birthday. To my delight, however, my mother had already planned out the colour of my birthday invitations to match perfectly with the recycling bin. I even thought about spending the day on my own, to find new self and find peace with the old me. Instead, when my special day did come, I spent it meditating beneath the walls draped with floral wallpaper between one of many sausage rolls I had that day. I may not have found the solutions to my problems but the day passed with ease – my mother did a great job with the party. Let’s just say that I won’t be moving out any time soon.

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