Yesterday was Brandon's 24th birthday. (Oh. He's the unromantic love of my life. We hang out at least once a week, I love him to death, but there is no attraction.)
Him and some other close friends went to a local Mexican eatery. (After taking a detour to the wrong Mexican restaurant.) Afterwards his roommate and our friend, Tammy, and I went out for what is hands down the best ice-cream in our town.
We discussed birthdays as we ate our scoops of snickerdoodle, hazelnut latte, peach cream, and apple. Brandon hadn't had a birthday at home since high school. Tammy thought she would be married by now (24), especially since she had been engaged. The only birthday that felt different was my 21st but as I don't drink I'm not sure why that was.
"What's it like to be 25?," Brandon asked me. I felt my child just asked me, "Why's the sky blue?"
What IS it like to be 25? I don't feel like my age. I don't feel like life "officially" started two years ago after I marched down the isle in a cap and gown to receive two diplomas. I don't feel like I'll ever be old enough to get married, have children, own a house.
Tammy's right though. Life has started and we might realize we're already behind. I think I procrastinated. One day it will hit home if we're not married. For her it's by 30, but only because chances of tying the knot decrease as we age. Single-hood seems to be my "destiny" at the moment and I've come to accept that fact.
This wasn't my birthday but I dare say it's the most reflective I've been in. I don't want to realize there wasn't much living between blowing out each set of candles. The thought of not being around people I love to celebrate our yearly milestones with is a bad note to a perfectly unperfect rendition of "Happy Birthday." Fumbling while trying to pin the tail on my life is still discomforting.
Our ice cream was sprinkled with melancholy but knowing we were still together helped take away the after taste. In the end that's you have.
Happy birthday, Brandon. Hope it's a good year.
