Ber's Arrival

The first of the ber months has stepped in. If I were 12 years younger today, I would be happier than most of my first-day-of-the-month’s. December would sound just a little bit closer and I would begin looking forward to our 10-year old round dinner table and what it has to offer me for an entire night of staying awake on Christmas.

But I’m not 10 anymore, same as the table, it depresses to one side now, termites have eaten most of its weight. Unlike the years of being 4 feet and something, there is to me more a sense of dread than excitement with the arrival of the colder ber months. Roughly 3 months and a half after the holidays, I would be celebrating (?) my 23rd birthday. 23, a number I’m not very familiar with. All I know is that my brother loved that number, he was a Michael Jordan fan. Also, James was once 23 and I’ve always deemed him a senior, the boyfriend (now ex) who was always wiser than me. 23 sounds so ascending, so advancing, so forward. From there, there is no more young age, no more regressing to carefree days. 22 is the last of those young ages. It sounds young because it’s the ultimate “twin” number, a twin of twins. And twins to me are always babies or children in identical clothing with their mothers in department stores.

It’s not the increasing numeral that bothers me, it’s the stuff that goes with it: if your number of years is equal to the sum of what you’ve learned, done, seen-experienced. I feel like I haven’t done, seen, or been enough to be 23. And I have only half a year and a couple of weeks to change that. Clock’s ticking, good luck to me.