My Best Year Yet
Whenever Christmas time rolls around, I tend to take about fifteen minutes (this would be the amount of time it takes me to drive from East Lansing home to DeWitt, and today was Country Classics on the radio, so I had no music and therefore, thinking had no option but to commence) and think about the past year. This is not because it’s the end of a calendar year or the end of a semester, but mostly because Christmas means my birthday, which means one year older, which means when they someday write my autobiography, they’ll have a chapter on, “when Maggie was 20…” and I’d like to consider the highlights of that invigorating and must-read chapter.
The past year has been an adventure of ups and downs and bilateral movements. Of course, that goes for every year, but this past year has been especially different. I think that’s because sometime around January last year, I just stopped trying to make everyone else happy. Don’t get me wrong; I still can’t say no and I tend to spend an exorbitant amount of time cementing the happiness of others, but when it comes to my life decisions and what I want to do, I actually stopped caring how I would be judged. If you haven’t done this yet (and let’s be honest, I can’t let go completely and most of us can’t), I highly recommend you jump on this. I, the girl who still insists we have lifejackets on board just in case took a couple of risks.
What risks you say? Well, I learned how to cook. That’s a work in progress, but it’s a risk every night and so far, I think we can label it a success (the smoke detector has been going off less and less). I complimented the girl sitting next to me in class on her tote bag (a risk because I’m shy around people I don’t know)–and now she’s one of my best friends. I went on to MSU’s study abroad website and booked a trip to Italy, without a second thought as to what six weeks away meant or the little factoid being that I don’t speak Italian (and after a six week course, the only phrase I truly remember in Italian is a combination of swear words that are not appropriate for a blog my grandparents read–especially with Birthday Shopping upon us). I left my comfort zone. I made new friends. I left old friends. I combined groups. I did things that are immoral and sinful that we won’t go into and I did some exciting and incredible things that would make my parents proud of me (That Longchamp bag I e-mailed my mother about would be a good way to show this appreciation). Or at least had my dad stopped referring to me as his “alleged daughter” and pointing towards the mailman as my potential birth father.
In two weeks, I have, and of course this is not dramatic at all: the last good birthday of my life. After 21, there’s really nothing exciting except for botox appointments and parties with the theme “over the hill.” I’m kidding, of course, but there is this weird stigma about age in society. As a people, we set our goals in terms of our ages, right? As in, “I want to be married by 25.” “I want to be a CEO by the time I’m 30.” “I want to retire by 57.” These goals are set at milestones that we strive for, but as we get a year closer, it’s hard to be okay with the fact that time is actually passing. But, 20 was a super happy year. It was the best year. It only got better as every month went by. Sure, I’m having a minor case of selective memory, but overall, it was a success. It was better than 19. And 19 was better than 18. And 18, well it kicked 17’s ass. And thank God every year got better than Middle school because those awkward years were not friendly to my awkward self. But my point is, I’m finally catching onto this linear trend that as you get older, it gets better. So, 21, with it’s legal drinking age and even more intense responsibilities can come because hey, if 21 can beat 20, then I’ve got it really, really good. Someday I’ll have a husband (or a nice lap dog) and a bunch of kids and a house and a career that requires a cute pencil skirt everyday and all of these other big girl responsibilities–and those birthdays will have even more blessings than this one.
This entry’s been just all over the board, so I hope you managed to at least kind of get what I’m saying: I’m okay with growing up. It comes with a lot of heartbreaks and tears (just ask my mother, who gets to hear me crying about my B on an exam I studied for–while trying to hold back a smile that I’m so upset about an 85%) and really no certainties at all. But it’s exciting and I hope that when I’m cruising home from East Lansing next Christmas break (although Dear God, let it not be when it’s Country Classics day on the radio), I hope I’m lucky enough to have blessings to count, people to love, and of course, that Longchamp bag next to me.