I was actually 24. Or 25. Or 26 (I actually had a blast in Bogotá that day).
I have a few very worthwhile reasons for disliking my real age, and some extremely lame ones as well. After Thailand, when my life took a stand-still in a very boring point and place, I was ashamed of being older and older and older and accomplishing nothing and nothing and nothing. I looked forward to my biweekly paycheck, looked forward to my weekly beer and wine get-together, looked forward to my daily commute back home. At least I found the most amazing boyfriend in the universe, so that kinda made my life not miserable - just mediocre.
A few weeks before I turned 27 (23-for-the-fifth-time), this happened at my cousin's wedding:
This meant that my life was about to change. The thing is, fate is not always clear or precise... or fast. Fate takes its time and instead of going directly towards the desired goal, takes twists and turns and goes back and forth.
I turned 27 - had a blast in Madrid.
I turned 28 - had a blast in Kiel.
I just turned 29. I celebrated in Bogotá again, but you did not hear (nor read) me bitchin' and moanin' about it. That is because I found a way to get rid of my obsession with age and birthdays and being old. The reason?
Honey proposed - and I said yes (if you want to catch up on the whole story, click here). And a wedding totally trumps a lame little birthday. I am to marry Honey in less than a week, which is why I have forgotten my birthday.
I will continue to get old. I will have more and more wrinkles. But for the first time (after this coming Saturday) I will not grow old alone, I will not have wrinkles by myself. Honey will be with me - from now until forever. I got rid of my obsession with age and getting older because now age and getting older signify maturity and improvement. I will be less like an old coke and more like an old wine.
So next year I'm turning 30. The past 5 birthdays with Honey have been awesome. I have great expectations, and no obsessions, about the 30th, and all those to come.