For the past couple of months, whenever I thought about the fact that my 25th birthday was coming up, I would break out in a cold sweat. I convinced myself it wasn’t worth celebrating because I couldn’t think of anything I had done that was worth celebrating.
The problem was, at this time of my life, I had imagined being a little further along in my career and ambitions and well…life.
I thought that I’d be married/engaged/in a really committed, loving kickass relationship that’ll make everybody jealous and be tensioning relationship goals Twitter anyhow.
I had this dream to have a published book by now. A well received, I’d even settle for fairly-liked kind of book that I could point to and say, “yah, that’s mine, I did that”.
But here I am and none of that is happening or has happened or is even looking like it is close to happening. In fact, instead shit is hitting the fan so hard like there’s some sort of conspiracy trying to NOT let it all happen.
After a series of back to back relationships and a string of very painful and dramatic break ups that would give any soap opera a run for its money, for the first time in my dating life, I am such a single pringle. 😩
If that wasn’t bad enough, exactly one year ago I had a laptop stolen with my entire first draft along with it. 😭
So here I am with my life basically looking upside down and inside out and completely different from how I pictured it. Twenty-five really didn’t feel like the year to celebrate.
But then, the birthday spirit slowly started to catch up with me, and rather than look at the glass half empty, I started looking at it half full with ice cubes inside and a slice of cucumber on top.
For my love life: Yes, I am single. I have no relationship, situationship or otherwise. But does that have to be a bad thing?
If I am to be honest, this is the most restful, peaceful, un-mindboggling period of my existence. As there is no man busy playing mind games on me, placing stupid expectations on my shoulders and giving me wahala that he cannot collect himself, I feel like I have aged five years younger. I might be turning 25, but I really look no day older than 20.
Sure, it’d be nice to kiss a guy once in a while. Or get smushed into a tight ass-grabbing hug. But as that is not happening, should I now go and kill myself?
I will just kiss the inside of my elbow — I kuku learned to kiss that way — and give myself a tight hug across my chest. It’s not the same, I know, but it’ll do for now.
For my writing: I’d like to think that there are no real losses in life. And sometimes things just look like they are gone from us but they’re really just exchanged for something better. I have something I’m working on now, and I am enjoying writing it and creating the story.
And there are still other things that if I am to be fair are also working for me.
I am a pinch and a half close to rounding up my Masters degree. And I am hella excited about it.
I recently started a job that I had never dreamed of getting and which I’m also hella excited about.
After a couple of years doing work purely for the money and the need to “stay alive” long enough to survive this adulting thing, it’s very refreshing to be able to do work that is hella fun and which I am hella happy to do and still get paid hella well for it.
So in all, it hasn’t been a totally fruitless twenty-five years. Sure there’s more that I could have been, but as it did not happen there is no need dwelling on the past. There is more that I can still be, and that’s worth more focusing on.