Another year older, another year wiser. January 18 went out without a bang this year. No surprises, no parties. Just a humble cake with two candles, a simple get-together with family, and a movie. Couldn’t have asked for more, honestly. I finally had what I had always wanted: a quiet, modest, peaceful birthday. And I’m happy. *grins*
Honestly, birthdays used to NOT mean that much to me. So I do get a bit older each year, yeah? Great. Fabulous. It’s just a matter of numbers, dude. Does it really matter?
Well, apparently, it does now that I’ve known better.
I’ve gotten over the childhood euphoria of expecting to see streamers and balloons and toys all over the house, to get all hyped up blowing candles on top of fancy sugarcoated cakes, and to receive a stack of birthday presents from other kids whenever January 18 came around. It was always either at home or at a nearby fast-food restaurant. Being the naïve, stupid kid that I was, I used to think that apart from Christmas, January 18 was the happiest day of the year, because I could finally have company during my birthdays. I got others to play with, to share moments with, to keep me happy and safe, after a whole year of being an only child. Those birthday parties were cute, and the presents were fab, though I gotta tell you most of them ended up in donation bags and charity giveaways anyway.
I grew up a little, and I sort of learned to appreciate the way adolescents during the late 90s celebrate birthdays. Very after-school special, with malicious tricks, water balloons full of paint, a whole bunch of splashing and running, and an awful lot of nasty, smelly, sticky liquid mixtures you don’t even wanna know about. Kids at that age, with their newfound freedom and developing sense of wicked creativity, sure knew how to make a piss out of somebody. It was fun, true, but was terribly disgusting at the same time. I took part in it. I victimized people. I became a victim. But I survived, barely. *laughs*
Then came the raging hormones. The conflicts. The groupings. The labelling. The prejudice, and the social struggles. Inner drama kings and queens began to reign in the hearts of teenagers, me included. And us drama kings and queens preferred to celebrate birthdays our way, dramas ‘n all. The element of surprise was still there in general. The hopeless romantics brought flowers and thoughtful presents for their loved ones, and sent their birthday wishes through the air via school radios and PA announcements. The popular ones hosted parties and get-togethers, from fancy restaurants and hotels to bars and clubs, and received sweet surprises from their peers. The geeks and losers just passed through unnoticed, simply forgotten. Why? Because in high school that’s the way things are supposed to be. You either shine and get yourselves noticed, or waddle in the absolute ignorance of others. Most of us spent our entire adolescent years struggling between the two extremes without actually getting anywhere in the end.
Did I manage to place myself somewhere decent after all? Dunno. But that doesn’t really matter anymore now does it?
Once upon a time, there was a boy. Twenty years, three big social steps later, here I am. I didn’t win the Science Olympics, didn’t earn myself a Grammy, and obviously didn’t invent the cure to AIDS or something. But I grew out of my own ignorant, childish, pathetic, foolish, full-of-crap self and managed to get real.
I learned not to be too aware of my social standing. I learned to be thankful of what I have. I learned to love selflessly, not selfishly. I learned not to pay too much attention to other people’s shallow judgments about me and my life. I learned to try. I learned to fight. I learned to forgive, and forget. I rose, I fell, I bounced back and stood again on my own two feet.
I found comfort. I found solace. I found my way back. I found love.
And that is why to me, turning twenty is a big deal.
I mean, twenty fucking years? Come on, that’s gotta count for something, no?
I hope I’d made that clear earlier on.
I’m now just this much closer to becoming a twentysomething. Imagine that.
Another twelve months, then I’m gonna have to wave goodbye to the falling leaves of my salad days, when I was green in judgment, to quote Shakespeare’s “Antony and Cleopatra”. Twelve months left before I stop sucking up to my parents, graduate, get real, freak out like a madhatter in distress, and oh, wait for it, face the big bad world out there, at last.
Am I ready? Not in a thousand years. But a guy has to start somewhere.
‘Cuz to me, the age of twenty is a turning point. No more playing around. No more dreaming. It’s time to actually do something, to move forward, to go ahead and take chances. Just like what Shaun said to Zach in “Shelter”, “you’ll never get what you want unless you take it”. Nobody’s gonna say that it’s always gonna be rainbows and butterflies, because we’re not living in some made-up utopia. Fuck-ups are inevitable, and difficulties lay ahead, sure, but that’s how life goes, right? Bumps on the road are bumps on the road because we think of them as such. They can be either the one thing that makes you fall apart or the stepping stone that will lead you to whatever you want to achieve.
Truth be told, I’m a freaking coward when it comes to ageing and growing old. I’m scared of the indefinite and uncertain. I don’t know where my life’s gonna take me. Yet I know I’m not gonna go anywhere just sitting here feeling sorry for myself, ‘cuz life is short, too short to be wasted upon doing things that aren’t right.
Millions of thanks to you guys for your sweet, encouraging birthday wishes.
I wouldn’t be who I am today if it wasn’t because of you all. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
So here I am, standing nears the gates of adulthood, not knowing when to knock.
I’ve survived through twenty years of my God-knows-how-long period of existence. And so far, it has been a helluva ride. Where will it take me next?
That’s for me to find out myself. *winks*
Be blessed. Be safe. And be good. :)
.nianianyouyi.
