For some weeks now I haven’t been the most eloquent blogger in the blogosphere. Ever since New Year’s I’ve been deep in thought, because I knew that it was going to be that time of the year once more…
On Wednesday I will be turning twenty-twelve.
When I was a kid I thought that someone over 30 was an old person. Eventually, I grew up but still kept thinking that someone being over 30 meant that they were grownups or adults. These people were supposed to be either living with their husband/wife, with kids, with a good job (meaning not depending on their parents), and with a different view or perspective in life. Because they’d be making good money by then, they would have a place of their own; if they were business-savvy maybe they’d own a house on the beach or on the mountains, they’d travel a lot and age would definitely start showing.
There’s a problem with this whole equation: I don’t see myself there yet.
I don’t see myself as old. I don’t even consider myself as a grownup, much less an adult. Although I have never been married (by personal choice, if it would’ve been up to certain someone I’d be married by now, would probably have kids and be the unhappiest person in the world, but that’s a whole other story), I don’t see myself as an old maid (I don’t have a stable boyfriend, but that is also by choice). I still live with my parents (I do have a place of my own, but it’s rented). My parents still subsidize me in some ways, and being married and having kids is not a goal in my life (I’d love to be married and have kids, but it’s not the only thing I want from life).
Saturday night I was talking to a friend about my upcoming birthday, and I suddenly realized that, after Wednesday, I was only going to be eight years away from turning twenty-twenty. Oh dear God! I was stupefied! Twenty-twenty! Was I where I was supposed to be at this age by society standards? I had only eight years to go before my biological clock really started ticking! I needed to hurry up before it was too late! As per my friend, after Wednesday I would even be too old to get that tattoo I’ve always wanted but never had the guts to get!
Later that night, just before I went to bed, I started thinking about the whole birthday thing. Was I really that anxious about the fact that I didn’t even have a prospective husband in sight? Did I really care? When the time came (if it did), would I be too old to have children? Did that mean that I’d have to hurry up and get that tattoo? I then realized I didn’t care. I am very happy just the way I am. I have learned to be happy without the need of having someone provide that happiness for me. I have learned to be independent. I have learned to make my way in life all by myself. I have learned to fix things when they need to be fixed, I have learned to look for the things I need and know what to do with them when I find them. I have learned to survive during rough times. I have learned to fend off by myself. I have acquired so much knowledge in life that at one moment in my introspective I realized that there was no reason for me to be sad for the fact that I was turning thirty two.
Yes, that’s right. I will not be turning twenty-twelve. I will be turning thirty two.
Scary, isn’t it?
By the time my mom was thirty two she already had three kids. By the time my grandmother was thirty two she had ten kids. Where does that leave me?
When I was going out Saturday night my mom asked me where I was going. I told her I was going out. She asked where and I jokingly asked her if she remembered how old I was turning on Wednesday. She said she didn’t care, that to her I would always be her baby.
Am I still a baby?
Lately I’ve been feeling the urge for privacy. Sure, having to manage a house is a big task. It is a very big responsibility (financial and otherwise), to be the head of the household, but I think it has its rewards, though I don’t know if I’m quite ready for it. I don’t know why (or maybe I do), but the fact that I still live at home has been bugging me lately. The fact that I have no privacy whatsoever is not good. The fact that I feel caged when dad locks the door and turns the lobby lights off at 8 p.m. is not good either. I know they (when I say they I mean my family) do it because they don’t know otherwise and it’s all in good faith (and they still see me as the baby of the house), but I’m getting annoyed when they rush into my room without even knocking on the door. I get annoyed when they come into my room and start asking, or better yet, shouting at me and asking if I’m asleep or otherwise. It annoys me when my brother comes in my room (without knocking again) and starts going thru my stuff without my permission. It bugs when my father comes in my room and turns the lights off when I’m not there, even when I’ve told him a million times that when I get home late at night I need a light to be on so that I don’t trip on something in the way. I get annoyed when they open the door to my room just to see what I’m doing.
Maybe I’m being too intolerant.
Maybe I’m being picky.
Maybe I’m being ungrateful.
Maybe I need to move out and have a life of my own.
Who knows?
I most certainly don’t.
Anyways, I think I’ve wasted too much time thinking of this crap. Let’s just see how things develop.
On Wednesday I will be turning twenty-twelve.
When I was a kid I thought that someone over 30 was an old person. Eventually, I grew up but still kept thinking that someone being over 30 meant that they were grownups or adults. These people were supposed to be either living with their husband/wife, with kids, with a good job (meaning not depending on their parents), and with a different view or perspective in life. Because they’d be making good money by then, they would have a place of their own; if they were business-savvy maybe they’d own a house on the beach or on the mountains, they’d travel a lot and age would definitely start showing.
There’s a problem with this whole equation: I don’t see myself there yet.
I don’t see myself as old. I don’t even consider myself as a grownup, much less an adult. Although I have never been married (by personal choice, if it would’ve been up to certain someone I’d be married by now, would probably have kids and be the unhappiest person in the world, but that’s a whole other story), I don’t see myself as an old maid (I don’t have a stable boyfriend, but that is also by choice). I still live with my parents (I do have a place of my own, but it’s rented). My parents still subsidize me in some ways, and being married and having kids is not a goal in my life (I’d love to be married and have kids, but it’s not the only thing I want from life).
Saturday night I was talking to a friend about my upcoming birthday, and I suddenly realized that, after Wednesday, I was only going to be eight years away from turning twenty-twenty. Oh dear God! I was stupefied! Twenty-twenty! Was I where I was supposed to be at this age by society standards? I had only eight years to go before my biological clock really started ticking! I needed to hurry up before it was too late! As per my friend, after Wednesday I would even be too old to get that tattoo I’ve always wanted but never had the guts to get!
Later that night, just before I went to bed, I started thinking about the whole birthday thing. Was I really that anxious about the fact that I didn’t even have a prospective husband in sight? Did I really care? When the time came (if it did), would I be too old to have children? Did that mean that I’d have to hurry up and get that tattoo? I then realized I didn’t care. I am very happy just the way I am. I have learned to be happy without the need of having someone provide that happiness for me. I have learned to be independent. I have learned to make my way in life all by myself. I have learned to fix things when they need to be fixed, I have learned to look for the things I need and know what to do with them when I find them. I have learned to survive during rough times. I have learned to fend off by myself. I have acquired so much knowledge in life that at one moment in my introspective I realized that there was no reason for me to be sad for the fact that I was turning thirty two.
Yes, that’s right. I will not be turning twenty-twelve. I will be turning thirty two.
Scary, isn’t it?
By the time my mom was thirty two she already had three kids. By the time my grandmother was thirty two she had ten kids. Where does that leave me?
When I was going out Saturday night my mom asked me where I was going. I told her I was going out. She asked where and I jokingly asked her if she remembered how old I was turning on Wednesday. She said she didn’t care, that to her I would always be her baby.
Am I still a baby?
Lately I’ve been feeling the urge for privacy. Sure, having to manage a house is a big task. It is a very big responsibility (financial and otherwise), to be the head of the household, but I think it has its rewards, though I don’t know if I’m quite ready for it. I don’t know why (or maybe I do), but the fact that I still live at home has been bugging me lately. The fact that I have no privacy whatsoever is not good. The fact that I feel caged when dad locks the door and turns the lobby lights off at 8 p.m. is not good either. I know they (when I say they I mean my family) do it because they don’t know otherwise and it’s all in good faith (and they still see me as the baby of the house), but I’m getting annoyed when they rush into my room without even knocking on the door. I get annoyed when they come into my room and start asking, or better yet, shouting at me and asking if I’m asleep or otherwise. It annoys me when my brother comes in my room (without knocking again) and starts going thru my stuff without my permission. It bugs when my father comes in my room and turns the lights off when I’m not there, even when I’ve told him a million times that when I get home late at night I need a light to be on so that I don’t trip on something in the way. I get annoyed when they open the door to my room just to see what I’m doing.
Maybe I’m being too intolerant.
Maybe I’m being picky.
Maybe I’m being ungrateful.
Maybe I need to move out and have a life of my own.
Who knows?
I most certainly don’t.
Anyways, I think I’ve wasted too much time thinking of this crap. Let’s just see how things develop.
2 comments:
I'm 31 for a few more months and by anybody's standards I'm doing pretty well. I have the wife, baby, dog, houses, money,etc. But I have it all more than 4000 miles away from my parents. The older I get, the more I realize how prescious time and family are, and the more I wish they lived closer to me.
I think you can have your cake and eat it too. Just have a formal meeting with your family and express how you are feeling instead of moving out just yet. I'm sure they will appreciate how serious you are.
On the other hand, maybe nature is telling you that it's time to cut the umbilical cord.
Jesu Santisimo! La edad! ... I just turned 27, and everytime my birthday gets closer each year I just get depressed, I don't mind getting older but I do mind all the things I thought I would have at this point in life. Yes, the husband, Yes, the house, Yes, the kids. In general, I can't complain about life, I mean, i've been a lucky person: good education, got to study and live abroad for a while, have a "decent" job.... But, Yes again, Still living with my parents, still no husband prospect by far!, feeling like a 20 year old and maybe even thinking like one. It's a very sensitive subject for me, although I try to convince myself I have no rush for any of it and that I might not be ready, the fact that my parents raised me lecturing about the traditional "scheme" of marriage and kids at a certain age , that just keeps smacking me real hard constantly through time.
But, then again, it seems it's a fashion statement right now to get married in the 30's or even later.... :p
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