I write this two days after my birthday. I am now 29 years old. I don’t really know what to make of this number. I keep thinking, it is the last year of my 20s. It’s a year away from 30 – which is supposedly a milestone in itself. But really, do the numbers mean anything? To most of us they do. We set our goals vis-a-vis a certain age. Earning so and so by 25, married by 27, retired by 40. I was never really the type to do this. I suppose I knew on a subconscious level that I was a late bloomer. I had my first boyfriend at 21, I’m still on shaky ground career-wise, and although I’m in a stable relationship with a good man – it is only a year old and marriage is like a misty dream. So at the rate I’m going, I’ll be married and be having my first baby somewhere in the vicinity of my early 30s while my high school batchmates are already raising two or three toddlers.
I’m not worried. The pressure is not on at all. Thus far, the dots of the life are connecting and they make sense, and they’ve brought me to where I am now. And where I am now is a pretty good place. Happy birthday to me.