Your birthday marks the beginning of a new year for you. Forget New Year’s resolutions. You have to share the energy and the general crappiness that comes with others knowing your goals (or sharing in the chutzpah needed to carry them through and that’s exhausting and ultimately defeatist) because you went and drunkenly made these resolutions that are just absurd come the light of another day. But, with your birthday, the impetus to establish yourself is yours alone (save for all those other people who share your birthday – like Milton Berle or Bill Cosby). Forget New Year’s resolutions, everyone makes those just to break them.
Your birthday is yours, a new beginning and you can embody that smidge of new wisdom you have by revelling in your new number and the newness of the year. It’s like buying a new pair of sparkly sneakers and the promise you make to never, ever get them dirty. That first puddle you step in is going to be hard, but that’s part of living and you’re trying.
I am 30 now and have been for a couple of days. I have two children with another one one the way and it’s high time that I grow up. Establish some goals and do the things I’ve always said I would do. It’s the beginning of a new year and it’s all mine.
My 20s were altogether tumultuous and a mixed bag of what can only be described eloquently as, WTF. Like most of the nerdy, booky types of the world, there has been The Next Great Idea banging around in my head for the last couple of years and it is ridiculous to just keep it all tucked away in my grey matter. It’s just brain shenanigans, really. I’m not going to mess around with bold proclamations of publishing by my 31 birthday because I believe it will be a great accomplishment just to get the damn thing finished by next year, but there you have it.
Happy birthday to everyone else who shares my birthday.