Over the summer, I’d heard peoples plans for their 21 birthday. One girl’s family were taking her abroad, another girls family were buying her a car, ect. ect. Over the summer, I guess my idea on what turning 21 was like, was, in the end, highly inflated. This being the last ‘big’ celebration I’d have until I’m 30. The first big celebration out of my teens. In the states, you’re officially an adult. Here, you’re celebrating three years of surviving as an adult. I had high hopes of holidays and elaborate surprise parties and a meal the size of a banquet. What actually happened was much smaller and much more quiet. It wasn’t awful and it wasn’t really amazing either. It was a calm, content medium. There was some excitement but that was soon snubbed out. Like mot nights out these days, I ended my birthday with my mum and a quiet gratefulness that she will always be there.
Sure, no one had made any plans and I ended up planning my birthday on my birthday and by the time I get the big three-oh, I will only remember that day for getting my first piercings, but it could have been worse. Things can always be worse. One thing that overwhelmed me on my birthday was the idea that the day would be so mediocre, and my imagination had been really let wild, that I would disappoint myself purely on the basis that I had let others convince me that a 21st birthday was supposed to be a grand and special event. It wasn’t really either for me. It was a time for coming home and panicking because between September and December, that was my only break from Falmouth. That was the only time I’d get to see my family and friends, regardless of the fact that I do the chasing.
I woke up to my fiance. I finally, in my old age, got my ears pierced (because apparently piercings are the norm), I saw my family, ate Chinese and had a mate buy me a shot of tequila, ending the night with my fiances best friend saving mine and my mothers asses by driving us both home. It didn’t last long; it ended too soon. And there were tears, and hard decisions. Should I talk about it? Probably. Will I? Possibly . Will I share this for everyone to read? Nope. I know everyone, in their own way tried. Do I want to make a point about the disappointment and frustration I felt on the day, leading up to it, and afterwards? No. Literally just writing for therapy here.
I guess, if these was a tale, there would be a moral and the moral I guess would be along the lines of: Never expect anything, from anyone. If you want something, go get it yourself, but don’t rely on others for your happiness. People are messy creature, unorganised. They’ll never behave in the way you want. Hoping for it to happen, and staying quiet out of politeness, is futile. If there’s something you want to happen, organise it yourself. Don’t listen to what others have got going on in their lives. Jealousy isn’t going to help and expecting the same will only lead to your being disappointed. If you begin feeling pessimistic from the beginning then maybe you’ll end up pleasantly surprised instead of starting off majorly optimistic and ending bitterly disappointed; not at one particular person, but at yourself.
I’m done here.