I’m turning
25 this year. In a very dramatic tone, a usual for me, I pointed out to mom this
evening that one quarter of my life is over. She rolled her eyes, a usual for
her, and told me in her mommy voice, “Teri life mein shanti nahi hai,” and I
had the perfect, Bollywood answer to her quip: meri life mein shanti marne ke baad hogi.
Milestone
birthdays weren’t ever my thing—I did nothing special on my 18th and absolutely
nothing on my 21st. And I have just one reason to do things differently this
year:
You is kind. You is smart. You is important.
If there
were a yearbook in my high school, beneath my photo would be these words: To
make a difference. Now I am not sure if I have done that, or if I’ll ever be
able to, but I do like to believe that what I do, matters. Who I am, matters. So
of course, I want to celebrate the first 25 years of my life. Go away for a
week and come back more sensible, more level-headed.
I mentioned
this idea to a friend who reminded me I do this every year around my birthday,
and every few months in between. I do! It uplifts my mood to check flights, find
out prices and decide random dates, and random places. And although it never maps
out, it gives me hope. And like every time, I am dreaming of it again. A new
place, a new way to celebrate a real milestone; open my arms, and I may catch
another postcard memory.
This stuff
is what I live for.
No comments:
Post a Comment