… and older.

I never thought I’ll ever be 30. I was brought up in such a way that I believed I’ll never have to worry about getting old. Maybe I got that one wrong - doctrines get lost in translation every so often. So today, when I finally did reach that milestone, as I call it, I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t leave the house. I wanted to skip it, this day that shouldn’t have mattered to me if not for the fact that it gave me the number I’ve been dreading for all superficial reasons.    

What difference does it make, really? Am I fundamentally different yesterday than I’ll be tomorrow? Of course not. I don’t know why I can say that “It’s a good thing some things never change,”  but I did write that to myself. Two years ago, I used a site that allowed me to write a  letter to myself that will arrive today. Amazingly, it did; among other things, here’s what I wrote:

How’s your life now? …
Do you have someone to put a smile on your face on days when you’re thinking  every place  is a crappy place to be in? …
I could quite see the look on your face while reading this…

You can’t say I’m not that insightful. I just know that the look I had when I opened that forgotten letter is the one I’ve been expecting myself to project. Oh, it wasn’t that special. It’s not as if I expected that much nor did I particularly write a heart-wrenching prose to self. On the contrary, I knew then that two years wouldn’t make that much of a difference. It makes me sad just a little. I think now I should’ve expected more or maybe felt that I deserved a little more.

It doesn’t matter now. If ever I can start over, clean slate and all, I’ll start tomorrow. I may be fooling myself but, hey, nothing gives me more satisfaction than that (I am such a liar).

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