Have you ever heard the statement, “It’s my golden birthday.” Well, I’m sure if you’ve been around me in the last 2 months, you’ve heard it at least once. Put simply, it refers to the once-in-a-lifetime event where your date of birth coincides with your age. Hence, I turned 27 this year and my birthday is March 27. While I’ve been harping about how my golden year is going to be great, the aches and pains of 27 years are starting to catch up to me. Of course, mostly fun and full of adventure, the fear of 30 is right around the corner.
Year 7.
“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. All good children go to Heaven. When they get there they will yell. Deadwood High School plays like…“ You can fill in the blanks. It’s a favorite chant from Grandma Mary Ann with a sarcastic tone ending in a final zinger. Give her a dial for the full version. For now, let’s think about the lucky number 7. 7 birthday cakes from Mom, 7 innings in a Club baseball game, 7lbs & 8oz (Welcome to the world, baby Everett). That’s a really short yet long number when you truly think about it. 7 years and 286 days is all I had to practice elk calls, cheer for the Minnesota Vikings, eat only the center of an Oreo, and learn how to steal cookie dough when Mom’s not looking. In my mind, #7 isn’t so lucky.
My cousin recently turned 8. (Happy Birthday, Hadley!) This event made me reflect on my first 8 years of life. Knowing Hadley since she was a baby, I could physically recount all that has happened in her short timeframe here on Earth, even though her parents may think her spunk has lasted a lifetime. When I see Hadley, she has so much enthusiasm for life filled with memories of hunting/fishing, adventures with her siblings and new explorations every day with her mom and dad. Did I have that? I’m sure. I’m sure, I was contagiously smiley in every scenario, just as I am today. I’m sure I spoke to every person willing to listen to near exhaustion. I’m sure I was free-spirited, fun-loving, and full of chaos. I would imagine I’m close to the same person who you know as an adult, including the 27-year-old temper tantrums. Unfortunately, I have no memory of that. Does everyone lose those reminders or was it my experience that created a blank slate until about 14 years old? I have about three memories with my father: my final words to him, a late night date at Happy Chef in Huron after the races, and maybe eating a bowl of ranch covered cauliflower and broccoli while watching Nascar. The sad truth, I don’t know what blanks I’ve filled in to fit the narrative. I don’t know what is real and what I’ve heard from family. Like 9/11, I swore I was sitting in my Kindergarten classroom with Lane Fawcett next to me as Mrs. Fetzer pulled in the big black TV revealing smoke rolling off the Twin Towers. Now, the reality? During the terror attacks in New York City, I recently found out I was sitting in the living room with Grandma and Grandpa Moorhead, likely chowing down a sugar cookie waiting for my dad to come pick me up. It’s funny how our minds do that to protect us from the unpleasant memories. To shade us from too much bright light. It’s a bad habit I have, comparing myself to every 7 year old. To try to think back and remember what life was like for me. However, it’s joyous at the same time to see so much life and curiosity burning in young minds. Hadley never met her maternal grandfather, just like myself, yet seeing her vibrancy shows that it’s possible to live golden in our own normal. Especially at a young age, we literally don’t know what we don’t know. We operate on fruit snacks, mac & cheese, and whatever else makes us happy. I guess I’ve been living on the mantra “do what you love” since then. 20 years later, nothing has seemed to change.
Year 27.
People fear the ripe age of 30. It has all the allure and dread to make you want to call the coroner. To me, it seems like the next best conspiracy theory. Be married by 30. Have your kids by 30. Own a house by 30. In my neck of the woods, I see the happiest people after 30. 95 year olds still making daily happy hour. 60 year olds pretending to drink like they are 23. College friendships turning you into aunties and uncles with all the comfort of snuggles and no gagging of diaper duty. From that perspective, 27 doesn’t seem half bad. Yet, we’re only in May and I’m stuck reflecting. My golden year has been just short of actual golden. My heart was shattered by someone unworthy of breaking it. My worries created anxiety from living in a hospital room for weeks uneasy that my lighthouse would go dark. My stubborn attitude allowed me to meet my health deductible with emergency surgery because I refused to believe something was seriously wrong. On the flip side, my life is like a movie with unwavering plots and themes. I truly can’t complain. I’ve experienced life in Europe with my sister and mother. I finally purchased a Jeep (goodbye, Blueberry) with the cool ‘70s shades to match. Most lovingly, I’ve met the people who will be there even when the beauty has died inside me. For years, I’ve been the discolored sediments of prehistoric rock in the hill sides. There’s been layer after layer of different shades of trauma that I’ve continued building on, never checking if the foundation is sound. This year, I’ve learned it is. Small fragments break off here and there but at my core, the brick and mortar is built on unconditional love. Love from my family. Love from my friends. Love from God. Love from my neighbors who barely even know me other than the girl who walks and talks all day. You truly don’t know your own strength until it’s tested. You won’t know if you can leave that guy, unless you pack the bag. You don’t know if you can travel the world, unless you book the flight. You don’t know what you don’t try, just like the innocent mind of a toddler. The cultures I’ve learned, both local and abroad, have given me a new appreciation for individual lifestyles. To do more of what I love and see the golden in every day. Even the dreary rain makes a bountiful, bright garden.
Now, to check off two more tasks on the Golden Year Bucket List: fresh ink and some real therapy. Because nobody is perfect, and each day we should be striving to be a better, happier version of yesterday. Cheers to my golden year!
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