Twenty-Bloody-Nine. Come On, I Dare You.

Birthdays. Ugh. Someone told me recently that birthdays aren’t about taking stock of your life, they’re about being glad that you’re alive because the only other alternative is death. Cheery, eh? I don’t really buy it, though. I’m much more of a “take stock” kind of girl. I always look back at the previous year, and years really, of my life and survey how far I’ve come, what I’ve learned, if I’m progressing. I do that on my birthday and on New Year’s too, as cliché as that is.

But this year. Ugh. I just don’t feel up to it. I usually love the celebratory part of birthdays. Gifts, flowers, cards, well wishes from loved ones. But this year, I just don’t feel like celebrating. I’m having a hard time looking through the muck of this funk to see what to celebrate. I know I’m being too hard on myself and measuring my life with a weighted scale, but it’s hard to see the forest for the trees and all that crap.

I just don’t feel different. Or that I’ve progressed that much. And yeah, I am thankful I’m not dead or more unhealthy than I am at present, but I’ve had a lot to deal with in the past month, and I just feel up to the brink.

And now I’m a whole year older, which makes a huge difference. Guys my age are already going for girls two or three years younger, one of my good friends met the love of his life, and she’s four years younger than him. She could barely drink when they started dating and was still in college. Now don’t get me wrong, she’s amazing and totally perfect for the bastard, but I’m not working with good odds anymore and that’s my point. Damn, I am really going to hate myself for all this in a few years. “Whaa, whaa, 29 is soooo old. I’m ‘starting’ to get wrinkles, poor me.” I do still have my looks so at least I have that going for me. Oh and my wits. I’m really one for the clever banter. Baa.

I think that I just hurt is all. I ache. In my stomach, in my head, even my teeth hurt. I know what it is. It's not just me, what the past year has been like, or how I feel I'm doing in my life at 29. The truth is, none of this is about me at all.

His time is running out. So fast. Where did all that time go? I dread the next few months. I don't want to be home for Christmas. I'm just not ready. I am not where I need to be yet because I still need him. I need his guidance and support and laughter. I need to be the person he wants me to be so that he sees that I'm alright. And so that I see that I'm alright and can go on without him. I don't know how to explain it except to say there's so much more I wanted to do before he goes away. He was supposed to walk me down the aisle. He was supposed to be the one who gave his consent to ask.

I know I'm doing ok. I know I make him proud. And I know he's had a long, happy life. Maybe that's also it. I want to live each day like I know they're running out. Not like it's my last, but like I know I have a limited time and I need to make the most of it. And just be scared less.

Every year it seems like we just learn how much we can take, how much we can survive, and every year I seem to make it somehow. So here’s to surviving the worst that 29 has to offer. Bring it on, bitch.