Another birthday has come and gone, yet 35 feels no different from 34 or 33 before it. I admit experiencing a rather upsetting emotional upheaval when I transitioned from my twenties to thirties. It was as if I traversed some great chasm, accomplished some great feat which took from me my youth. Something was taken from me, even if the loss was a self-imposed weight upon my mind and heart. Silly thoughts they are, I know, yet I struggled these five years ago to relinquish the understanding of my childhood to the reality of my adulthood.
Why should such a thing be difficult? Better yet, why should such a thing be necessary? It is a curse heaped upon us by our own society. I deny that culture. It is not me, and it is not for me.
I see five years hence another great struggle looming before me. Birthdays come each year. The anniversary of my existence, they serve as reminders that I am a survivor, that I have beaten the odds in some way. More than this, they represent assumed and expected maturity.
Perhaps it is this very maturity that vexes me so. It is as if I must give something up in order to move on. The truth of the loss is real, however, despite machinations to reduce it to a mere psychological occurrence. With each day passed, we lose some of our life. While there are no guarantees that we shall see another day, those committed to history are forever out of reach, and each one journeys by only by reducing those ahead.
That which has gone before can never come again. Is it that time’s predation of living inexorably steals from us in some way?
Or, and I hope it’s this, do experience and knowledge gained by living cause us to fear opportunities missed? If I knew then what I know now is an ever present consideration. What has befallen our plans? Which goal has been sacrificed to immaturity or lack of planning?
More importantly, how much living has been forsaken to the promise of tomorrow? Yet another day will come, we think, so we tarry and plan and execute with care an approach to life which often robs from us so many promises, promises ultimately left unfulfilled when we next celebrate a birthday.
My youth was not wasted by any stretch of the imagination. My life has been full and happy. I wish not to dwell in the house of concern and future hope to the detriment of living. While each passing year may represent opportunities missed, it will not be for lack of trying. I will not regret time lost to the great predator.
Birthdays should be a celebration of living. They are life’s historical markers commemorating all that makes us who we are. Both the good and the bad join one with the other to define us, and our existence is certainly greater than the sum of its parts. Likewise, our life is greater than the sum of years past. Facetiously we may lament the next age with which we must be labeled. Surreptitiously we may agonize that we feel not equal to the numeric value placed on our life. My hope certainly rests in that never again being true.
I am me, an individual more complex than any other can know, and I am more than whatever class to which I may be assigned. Categorize me if you must. Falsely assume you know me through summarization of the many descriptions I may carry. Know with certainty that you are wrong. I am 35, gay, white, American, professional, technical, intelligent, scientific, creative, contemplative, emotional, articulate, intellectual, considerate, and a great many other things, yet volumes can be filled with applicable labels without ever communicating one significant truth about who I am.
My apprehension at turning 30 so long ago and the subsequent humor I found in the agony have taught me this very truth. I wish the same epiphany for all those who still relate to others solely through the labels with which they can be described.