And so twenty-two is done. I am twenty-three.
Some people have asked me, what’s so bad about 23? Why the fuss? And I know, I know, I was drama queening a little bit, gotta make a fuss around birthdays you know! Adds to the fun! But 23 does feel different for some reason. Usually ages don’t feel like a big deal, at least I don’t find them a big deal, but this one felt different.
I always wanted to be twenty-two. I think I romanticized the age a bit. I was born on the twenty-second, 22 was my jersey number in basketball, twenty-two was my mum’s age when she got married. It seemed like it would be a big year, a special year! It was my champagne birthday after all! #22onthe22 (and I’ve realized I had no champagne all year, this is what happens when you don’t really like alcohol all that much…)
And it was a great year! I finally hit a rhythm and completed my second year of my degree instead of changing my degree again, a wonderful boyfriend came into the picture, I made new friends and had great times with old friends, there was a road trip to BC, adventures in Seattle… Twenty-two was a good year, I enjoyed it!
But see, seven year old Becky would disagree. Seven year old Becky would have graduated by now and would be a teacher. Seven year old Becky would have gotten married this year. Seven year old Becky would be very pleased that I actually have dyed my hair red. (six year old Becky would be quite pleased with that fact too…) So I’m sorry seven year old Becky, red hair is the only part of your plan that will ever come to pass because I’m no longer twenty-two, the goal age has passed. I cannot fulfill your dreams in the time you gave me, but no, no I won’t say sorry for that seven year old Becky, because sometimes some things need a bit more time. You see life isn’t all as quick and easy as dying your hair. Life is messy and doesn’t fit into molds very neatly. The future is unknown, it’s unplanned, and it’s very unlikely to be uneventful.
Now I get to be twenty-three.