I've always hated my birthday. But don't get me wrong I absolutely love birthdays. Who doesn't love a day dedicated to celebrating the fact that you are alive and exist? I mean, seriously. But I've always been weird about the number. At age 10, I was mad there were two digits in my age and no longer just one. Then, when my 20th birthday rolled around I was so upset that I was no longer a teenager, I actually made my friends and family celebrate my "second 19th birthday." My cake even said so in swirling pink frosting. (A completely healthy approach to aging, you guys. If you lie on your cake it totally negates the passing of time!)
I'm sure based on those two ages you could guess that I didn't do well turning 22 because "what is there to celebrate after 21? Renting a car at 25?" I ranted. And then 24 was hopeless because I was officially in my mid-20s. "That's when it's REAL," I had told my friend. He had just turned 24 a few weeks earlier. "Too real, man," he responded.
And so for the last 11.5 months I have dreaded my 25th. "It's that much closer to 30," I've complained to anyone who would listen. (My friends really love me.) But now, just 11 days out from the big 2-5 I feel at peace with it. What have I learned? Every age and every phase lasts just long enough, you guys. And it really doesn't matter how old you are as long as you're surrounded by the people that you love, who love you back, and you're having a good time along the way.
And what's scary about that? Not a damn thing.
By Kathryn Greene