Just had my birthday. Feels good. I feel good about it. About being twenty-nine, I mean. Not much anxiety. I’m sure that at some point in the near future, I’ll feel angst about how much time has passed in my life. It’s not that I particularly regret my choices or the things that I’ve done with my time. It’s just that whole thing about time passing. You know, the mute existential fact that I’ll someday die.
Still, for me, none of that angst has ever been localized around my birthday. Why should it be? I’m only a day older than I was yesterday. For me, a birthday is a reminder to think about all the good stuff that’s happened in the last year. Stuff, like, umm, selling a novel? Graduating from grad school? Moving back to the Bay Area? Many good things.