Well, folks, I’ve officially left my 20s behind me. New Year’s Day is also my birthday, and while that sounds cool, I’m the awkward and antisocial genius type, so the attention embarrasses me. It probably has something to do with never being able to have a birthday party since school is always on winter break during New Year’s. The anxiety of inviting a bunch of elementary school friends to my impoverished home and then worrying that they wouldn’t show up was an apprehension that was too great for my precious little mind. So every year I furiously rejected any party suggestions until the offers stopped coming. My sister threw a surprise gathering for me a couple of years ago, and I was taken so far from my comfort zone that I nearly jammed my head through a wall to hide, ostrich style. I still haven’t forgiven her for it.
Anyway, I’m thirty, but twenty-nine was much worse. It was like spending a year slowly peeling off a Band Aid, and now that it’s gone, I realized that I wasted twelve months obsessing over the inevitable. I’m better now
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