It’s my birthday today. I’m * cough cough cough * years old. I actually typed a cough for every syllable of my spoken age. That’ll do, really.
I’m at the point in my life where a long-term reality doesn’t seem like someone else’s life, or a movie that I have no control over. I can map out my future pretty confidently and feel the optimism of a horizon full of achievements and goals to meet.
So far (and not in order), I have had high-stress/mega-pressure jobs, I’ve earned a degree, I’ve moved around the world, I’ve survived cancer (rather triumphantly), and I’ve purposely put myself into a part-time job I enjoy so that I can get on with what I really want to do: that writing thing.
This life so far – though typed out in gappy summary – has been pretty good. I have no children and at the age of * cough cough cough * it feels amazing knowing that if I haven’t felt a chasm of loss by not procreating or adopting by now that I’m set for smooth sailing here on out. Funny how people (the ones that will or already have children) often assume that it’s a level of immaturity that fuels a childless person’s decision to remain a non-parent, but when the topic comes up at work, it’s often the youngest of my colleagues that most dream of children. That’s fine, to each her/his own, but I’m comfortable knowing that I do not require children. Neil is the same; if there hasn’t been a fire for kids in his heart by now (and he is seven years older than me) then we’re in the clear. This makes planning our future infinitely easier. It is January of 2008 and our future is stronger than ever.
So life is pretty good. I work with cool people, [some of whom are resigning and moving on to forge careers and earn educations – I will miss you tremendously], I eat well enough, I live in a part of the world I adore, I feel immense love everyday, and I’m pushing myself to achieve what scares the crap out of me: the writing thing.
Bring it on, birthday. I’ve earned you.
And if you must know: I am thirty-six.