After the 25th birthday, what is it about turning a year older that induces anxiety attacks coupled with a perpetual state of denial in women?
I never understood it. Birthdays are milestones to be celebrated – the successful survival of one more year without landing on the obituary page. So what if that additional year is accompanied by graying hair, cellulite, and more prominently visible laugh lines? They build character. And at least you’re alive to experience the promise life has to offer.
But for some reason, where once you fudged your age to be a couple years older because it was, well… cooler, now you find yourself beginning to annually subtract years Benjamin Button style.
There was a time - yes, not that long ago - when you lay awake the night before in anticipation of gleefully lighting candles on that gloriously decadent birthday cake; now each year you find yourself hiding a few more candles in the kitchen drawer and hoping no one notices the count is slightly off. Candles are a fire hazard, you reason. Besides, there are already 30 on the cake, no one will notice six or seven missing.
Where once you proudly announced weeks in advance your upcoming big day in hopes of receiving gifts, cards, and wishes galore, now you find yourself praying to pass the day staying well below the radar. If anyone remembers or is reminded, you force a smile acknowledging their well wishes and hastily fumble for your cell phone in a not-very-subtle attempt to halt that depressing line of conversation. When inquisitively asked how old you’re turning, you noncommittally reply, ‘ehh … (cough) forty - (cough) - ish, (cough)’ then quickly ask your colleague’s opinion on the latest rumors revolving Steve McNair’s death. Motherfathers, you mutter inaudibly to yourself, people ask too many questions.
Undeniably, the media has had a significant role in transforming successful intelligent and especially single women passing their prime, into nincompoops at the thought of turning a year older. Images of size two impeccably dressed young models with flawless skin and perfectly coiffed hair bombard us from every avenue. These images are indelibly imprinted into our minds as surreal envy-inducing prototypes for en vogue beauty. Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline - but wow either way, she’s beautiful.
Not to mention the pressure to settle down and start a family begins weighing heavily on your mind as your biological clock steadily ticks away like a timed bomb. It's enough to make even the most well-dispositioned women suppress a small sigh at the thought of aging another year.
All in all, it’s understandable why you might not feel too excited about celebrating your next birthday. But honestly, cheer up, it's a blessing to be alive. Despite what anyone says, you’re still as much a commodity now as you were twenty years ago. Don't forget: women are like cheese and fine wines; some things just get better with age.
And in case you happen to wonder why I've written this in the second person narrative, well… because silly, this is about you. Me? I'm turning 18 tomorrow.
