COMPLETED. A university student. A professional hockey player. They've proved they can be friends. Can they be more?
Although they're both in their early twenties and living in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, their lives couldn't be more different. Cami...
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I woke up on the morning of October 17 officially twenty-one years old.
I say "officially" because it doesn't count when the clock strikes midnight yet you're sound asleep. It always made more sense to me that you had to wait until morning to actually be your new age. Maybe it was because of Christmas, and no kid gives a damn about three am on December 25th. Everyone knows Christmas morning is when all the magic happens.
I'm going on a tangent here, because I dislike my birthday and I'd rather think about literally anything else other than the day that marks my birth.
That heavy, icky feeling of dread filled my belly a few weeks before my birthday, which was odd, because I usually waited until the night before to get that feeling. But this was a big birthday, and it certainly lived up to my lack of expectations.
Twenty-one held a lot of significance for me. It wasn't because it's the legal drinking age. In Canada, it's nineteen. It's also irrelevant to me because I don't drink. Alcohol, that is. I'm addicted to Diet Coke. And it wasn't because it's the legal age to vote. That's eighteen.
The reason why I consider twenty-one to be such a big deal is because it reminds me of my failures. Okay, maybe "failures" is a little too extreme. "Shortcomings" is probably more accurate. The reality is, I thought I'd have more than I do when I reached this age. And I'm not talking about material possessions. I'm thinking more along the lines of experiences. I still can't drive. (The roads are probably safer because of this. I'm horrendous behind the wheel.) I still live with my parents. (Because it's convenient for me to, but also because I'm afraid to go out on my own.) I've still never had a boyfriend. (As Taylor Swift says, there's a lot of lame guys out there.) And I still don't have a large group of friends. (But I do have Angela, and she has enough personality to count as five people.)
Thinking all these things makes me like myself a little less. Is that crazy? Don't get me wrong, I am so grateful for my life, I really am. And I'd say that 99.99% of the time I'm not that bothered by these facts. It just so happens that the 0.01% takes place on my birthday.
I call it the Birthday Blues, because it happens every year without fail.
I'm not exaggerating when I say that I think I've cried on every birthday for the last few years. On a day that's supposed to be all about celebrating yourself, my low self-esteem and numerous insecurities rear their ugly head. The day feels pointless and sad. I haven't had a party since I turned sixteen. My mom took three girls who were my friends at the time, including Angela, to a nail salon. After that year, I didn't bother doing anything, not even with my extended family. Inviting people over for me seems like such a waste of their time and I hate the attention, anyways. Aunts, uncles, a few cousins, and my one living grandparent tend to call me or text me, which I appreciate, but I try not to dwell on the fact that only one non-family-member wishes me a happy birthday.
The good thing is that my parents and brother's family know how I feel about my birthday, so they try to make it as low key yet special as they can. My mom makes lasagna, my nephews write me homemade cards, and my brother and his wife always get me something that I mentioned that I wanted in passing. And the fact that they're so nice to me makes me even more emotional.
