I want to be 25 again. I don’t want to be 33. I want to flirt. I want to care less. I want to discover things for the first time. I want to climb up mountains and drink until I’m giddy. I want to be excited. I want childless friends. I want single friends. I want old friends. I want to be confident. I want to feel desirable. I don’t want to be scared of saying what I really want to do. I want to be brave enough to do them. I want less crows feet. I want more energy. I want to kiss. I want to get lost. I don’t want to feel lost.
Every year the day eventually comes and everything is - fine. There’s no song and dance, there is no implosion. It is fine. And in the aftermath of all my worry, I tell myself I’m good. I’m happy. I’m comfortable. And I‘m not lying. I’ve so far enjoyed my thirties, and I have no reason to believe I won’t enjoy the next turn of my calendar year. Yet here we are, still two weeks away, and the same old feelings are flooding back. It’s like a max strength dose of PMS. I’m irrational, fidgety, anxious. I’m preparing for a job interview I know I’m not qualified for and I don’t need anyone reminding me of my inadequacy for the role.
You’re still young. What are you complaining about? You still live with your mother? Stop moaning. Do you ever think you’ll get your own place? So no boyfriend. Are you a lesbian? You can tell me.
It’s easy to become bogged down in the expectations that come with being a certain age. My fear surrounding my birthday has never been about getting older, but rather feeling as though I haven’t accomplished enough to earn another year. I have no claim to more traditional milestones: engagements, marriage, babies, significant career success. I don’t have much money or a nice car. I don’t have my own place to live. What exactly am I celebrating as I turn 33 with nothing to my name while every single one of my friends has surpassed me in every measurable way?
I don’t feel lacking. I have no want for marriage. I’m ambivalent about being a mother. I’m not in debt. I do have a car, old as dust, smokes three packets a day. I have peace, time and agency. I have a dog.
Is it enough? Am I where I should be? How do I know when I get there?
You should go out. You can’t stay in this village forever. Is that all? Nice for some. At least you can. Have you tried dating apps? Stick with the dog.
Do people think I’m sad? For being childless and single. For living in a quiet, happy home with my mother. For being clever but never quite nailing down a steady, money making job. For being too indecisive, not choosing one thing and sticking to it. For not making a man love me. Not being able to explain what it is I do with my life. Not packaging my existence into palatable pieces they’ll find easier to digest.
In many ways I don’t have much more to show for myself now than when I was 25. My indecision has kept me where I am while everyone else has built a visibly different life, making choices we deem worth celebrating. Nothing and everything has changed. We’re the same people with different priorities. I don’t want to be the person I was then, but I long to feel everything I felt then for the first time again. I worry with every year that goes by, becoming more comfortable with a future alone, that I’ll run out of first experiences. And with it, excitement. No matter how content and grateful I am for what feels like a meaningful life, the arrival of another year brings with it a threat. An unexpected wanting.
I want to keep still. I want to move forward. I want to learn. I want a crush. I want unexpected days. I don’t want to make announcements about my life on social media. I want to celebrate. I want peace. I want to dare. I want to feel good about myself. I want to accept. I don’t want to give up. I want to say yes. I want to say fuck no. I want to taste something new. I want to save money. I want to explore. I don’t want to waste a single moment. I want exactly what I have. I want more.
I don’t want to be 25.
I want to feel new and old and wise and wide eyed and alive.
I want. I want. I want.