Turning twenty-two / Birthday Anxiety.
It is my 22nd birthday one week from today. Saturday 1st of August.
For the past week or so, when I've finally been forced to contemplate my birthday, I've been trapped in a state of pressured panic mixed and mashed up with weirdly specific sadness.
Birthday Anxiety. It's a thing. I've realised this recently, but that's not to say I haven't felt it over the years.
For instance, when I threw together my chilled out festival/hippy-themed party in my back garden to celebrate my 18th and found myself guzzling down on cheap pink wine before everyone arrived as my parents put up the gazebo, due to my fear that the party would fall flat, which could have meant my friends would disown me and that the total ten of a fella I'd invited would never let me see beneath his tight Hollister polo shirt...
Or maybe when I bravely hosted an actual house party-type event one year prior to that and worried so much about my dress, the party room, my boyfriend at the time not socialising with my friends, my friends not being on board my boyfriend...
No wait, the best example would be when I decided I wanted a trip to the legendary Bluewater shopping centre for my birthday; I counted down the days, I made all of the lists, I planned my outfit -- then when we were all strapped into the car and a matter of minutes away from the turn off to the shopping universe that is Bluewater, it suddenly dawned on me that I really truly hate shopping.
I'm not sure when the anxiety first sprouted within me; when I was younger, a carefree curly-haired little kid, I loved my birthdays. I loved everything in the world screeching to a halt especially for me just one day a year (when in fact given the type of tyke I was, I'm pretty confident that most days had to be all about me). When I grew up and started wearing my deadly serious and very chic navy blue school uniform instead of the bright and cheery red I'd worn just down the road, I realised that my birthday being August 1st really did suck all the balls. I was the youngest in my year group! Everyone was ahead of me! For some reason being fifteen was so much more grown-up than fourteen, for starters. Then everyone was obsessed with hitting sixteen and being officially and legally able to get laid, and then of course came seventeen with the provisional licence and personalised number plate attached to it -- that really hurt, when everyone was driving to and from college and I had to get two trains there and back, plus just the general freedom and coolness of having access to a car and blasting the latest jams while putting your foot down on the dual carriageway... Finally, eighteen. I was luckier than most people my age in that I had friends who took pity on me and lent me their licences and passports if I ever wanted to tag along on a night out in wild old Eastbourne. (Plus these friends who did the lending were mostly happily coupled-up and so had no need to go out drinking, they'd be staying in all weekend ordering takeaways and watching vampire fantasy series with their other halves) (those boring suckers). Still, I yearned to not have to borrow ID or sneak into Spoons through the back gate. I had my shiny pink licence, which was most coveted the year before, and yet it was useless to me.
I always envied those lucky girls born in September - their intelligence was a year above everyone else, their breasts appeared before term had even begun, and they got to do everything sooner.
Anyway, hitting nineteen was a massive relief. Finally! An age that has no advantages to it, if anything it's more exciting than being eighteen, as suddenly eighteen seems so young... Nineteen was a comfy fit, and I happily basked in its boringness. Then twenty, too, actually. Ah, but then I foolishly thought twenty-one was only a big deal in America - nope! People party hard when they turn twenty-one, and they're showered with pricey permanent presents (I got my lovely purple laptop, tie-dye Vans and all of the jewellery I could ever want, ever). So I suppose twenty-one is the last age you reach where it matters a whole lot. Other than the milestones, e.g. thirty, forty, and beyond.
So I'm happy to be turning twenty-two. And not just because there's a top notch song to encapsulate this age. No, I just don't feel like a fun fresh twenty-one-year-old any more. The number twenty-two works for me. It even looks cute. 22. Two twos, side by side, like ducks swimming upstream on a sunny day, no doubt in the River Itchen cackling at the Winchester student population downing pints in pub gardens and neglecting their deadlines due to the sun coming out. *sighs*
Last year I actually arranged a casual little birthday shindig in my beloved Winchester. I'd been worrying about what to do to celebrate my birthday with my friends, as I seem to every year and, yes, am doing a lot this year.
Last year it was nice and simple, a series of drinking sessions at the local pubs which boasted the best gardens, then a dinner at the second best Italian restaurant in town which was open to all those drinking with me at the pubs, then a classy end to the night in Spoons. It was rather relaxed and perfectly lovely, in fact the only thing I stressed over (besides introducing friends from different circles to one another as I inexplicably would stumble over their names, despite knowing some of them for three years) was calling drinks at one pub short as I had the table at the Italian booked for a certain time. What a pleasant crisis!
A dear friend has pointed out that I can do that this year -- rather than inviting uni friends who are now based all around Hampshire or London, or even the Midlands, to little old Battle which is so far South it practically kisses the sea and gets tipsy with France, I can simply visit them in their little corners or large expanses of the country and celebrate when I'm there! How ingenious. So that's what I'll do. Less pressure that way. I'd hate to invite uni friends all the way down here, for them to then feel obliged to make an appearance in the sleepy South only to have to trek back soon after and splash out roughly £50 on a train ticket. Not to mention bringing a present and/or card! No, no way. It all seems too much to ask, and even if some of these faraway friends did genuinely want to come down this way, I'd be too stressed trying to ensure they had the most magical time and effectively got their ticket money back in joy and wondrous new experiences... It could be a messy and strained experience for all involved. Let's instead meet up somewhere more central or convenient for you, guys, and it can be at any time rather than just around this one day... I think what I'm saying is let's see one another soon. Like, in the next couple of months maybe. That sounds good.
Finally, presents. I'm also anxious about presents. I'm not trying to be coy and modest here. I've been told I'm not materialistic, which I suppose is a nice compliment in this day and age, however that's not what this is down to. I do worry that I've been enough of a nuisance to family and friends recently, so I can't help but feel that my birthday will be just another cry for attention and expense.
Also, let's hover over that word expense. I am especially upset and worried about spending money these days. It could be partially because I have very little of it, being off work and what not, but it's also the feeling that nothing is worth money at present. I'm content with my big bed, my bookshelves and my laptop, that's me sorted thanks. In fact the only time I'll let myself spend money is when it's going on someone else; birthday gifts for friends, drinks for colleagues, even today I paid the fee for my Grandad's parking.
For some reason though, yesterday I awoke with the most intense inner urge to go to Hastings (just that alone is shocking enough), get myself (and my sister, perhaps) a decent cuppa or two and then browse in Waterstones for books. I desperately wanted to treat myself to coffee and books. Those are my only vices, it seems. I'll waver over and eventually decide against that cute summer dress or the 79p single download, but I'll spend my millions (which I will earn someday) on a rich beverage and a new release novel. This whole waking up with the desire to buy something, not even something in particular just something under an umbrella, was a breakthrough.
Anyway, I also hate costing people money, which brings us back to birthday presents. I'll say just this now: The only presents I really require are a cuddle and company.
I've written about it before, but no matter how anxious and upsetting the run-up to a birthday is, on the day it's always... Just nice. Waking up in the morning and immediately feeling content and comfortable, getting on with your day and even when your only plans are sitting on the sofa watching daytime TV or driving out to the supermarket for extra hummus, you feel the happy sparkles settling on your shoulders and are safely in the realm of your protective birthday bubble. I'm not anxious about that part, at all.
**Apparently I've written a few of the same type things about my birthday before. Oops. Posts can be found here. Please be kind to me okay, I was younger when I wrote them...**
For the past week or so, when I've finally been forced to contemplate my birthday, I've been trapped in a state of pressured panic mixed and mashed up with weirdly specific sadness.
Birthday Anxiety. It's a thing. I've realised this recently, but that's not to say I haven't felt it over the years.
Or maybe when I bravely hosted an actual house party-type event one year prior to that and worried so much about my dress, the party room, my boyfriend at the time not socialising with my friends, my friends not being on board my boyfriend...
No wait, the best example would be when I decided I wanted a trip to the legendary Bluewater shopping centre for my birthday; I counted down the days, I made all of the lists, I planned my outfit -- then when we were all strapped into the car and a matter of minutes away from the turn off to the shopping universe that is Bluewater, it suddenly dawned on me that I really truly hate shopping.
I'm not sure when the anxiety first sprouted within me; when I was younger, a carefree curly-haired little kid, I loved my birthdays. I loved everything in the world screeching to a halt especially for me just one day a year (when in fact given the type of tyke I was, I'm pretty confident that most days had to be all about me). When I grew up and started wearing my deadly serious and very chic navy blue school uniform instead of the bright and cheery red I'd worn just down the road, I realised that my birthday being August 1st really did suck all the balls. I was the youngest in my year group! Everyone was ahead of me! For some reason being fifteen was so much more grown-up than fourteen, for starters. Then everyone was obsessed with hitting sixteen and being officially and legally able to get laid, and then of course came seventeen with the provisional licence and personalised number plate attached to it -- that really hurt, when everyone was driving to and from college and I had to get two trains there and back, plus just the general freedom and coolness of having access to a car and blasting the latest jams while putting your foot down on the dual carriageway... Finally, eighteen. I was luckier than most people my age in that I had friends who took pity on me and lent me their licences and passports if I ever wanted to tag along on a night out in wild old Eastbourne. (Plus these friends who did the lending were mostly happily coupled-up and so had no need to go out drinking, they'd be staying in all weekend ordering takeaways and watching vampire fantasy series with their other halves) (those boring suckers). Still, I yearned to not have to borrow ID or sneak into Spoons through the back gate. I had my shiny pink licence, which was most coveted the year before, and yet it was useless to me.
I always envied those lucky girls born in September - their intelligence was a year above everyone else, their breasts appeared before term had even begun, and they got to do everything sooner.
Anyway, hitting nineteen was a massive relief. Finally! An age that has no advantages to it, if anything it's more exciting than being eighteen, as suddenly eighteen seems so young... Nineteen was a comfy fit, and I happily basked in its boringness. Then twenty, too, actually. Ah, but then I foolishly thought twenty-one was only a big deal in America - nope! People party hard when they turn twenty-one, and they're showered with pricey permanent presents (I got my lovely purple laptop, tie-dye Vans and all of the jewellery I could ever want, ever). So I suppose twenty-one is the last age you reach where it matters a whole lot. Other than the milestones, e.g. thirty, forty, and beyond.
So I'm happy to be turning twenty-two. And not just because there's a top notch song to encapsulate this age. No, I just don't feel like a fun fresh twenty-one-year-old any more. The number twenty-two works for me. It even looks cute. 22. Two twos, side by side, like ducks swimming upstream on a sunny day, no doubt in the River Itchen cackling at the Winchester student population downing pints in pub gardens and neglecting their deadlines due to the sun coming out. *sighs*
Last year I actually arranged a casual little birthday shindig in my beloved Winchester. I'd been worrying about what to do to celebrate my birthday with my friends, as I seem to every year and, yes, am doing a lot this year.
Last year it was nice and simple, a series of drinking sessions at the local pubs which boasted the best gardens, then a dinner at the second best Italian restaurant in town which was open to all those drinking with me at the pubs, then a classy end to the night in Spoons. It was rather relaxed and perfectly lovely, in fact the only thing I stressed over (besides introducing friends from different circles to one another as I inexplicably would stumble over their names, despite knowing some of them for three years) was calling drinks at one pub short as I had the table at the Italian booked for a certain time. What a pleasant crisis!
A dear friend has pointed out that I can do that this year -- rather than inviting uni friends who are now based all around Hampshire or London, or even the Midlands, to little old Battle which is so far South it practically kisses the sea and gets tipsy with France, I can simply visit them in their little corners or large expanses of the country and celebrate when I'm there! How ingenious. So that's what I'll do. Less pressure that way. I'd hate to invite uni friends all the way down here, for them to then feel obliged to make an appearance in the sleepy South only to have to trek back soon after and splash out roughly £50 on a train ticket. Not to mention bringing a present and/or card! No, no way. It all seems too much to ask, and even if some of these faraway friends did genuinely want to come down this way, I'd be too stressed trying to ensure they had the most magical time and effectively got their ticket money back in joy and wondrous new experiences... It could be a messy and strained experience for all involved. Let's instead meet up somewhere more central or convenient for you, guys, and it can be at any time rather than just around this one day... I think what I'm saying is let's see one another soon. Like, in the next couple of months maybe. That sounds good.
Finally, presents. I'm also anxious about presents. I'm not trying to be coy and modest here. I've been told I'm not materialistic, which I suppose is a nice compliment in this day and age, however that's not what this is down to. I do worry that I've been enough of a nuisance to family and friends recently, so I can't help but feel that my birthday will be just another cry for attention and expense.
Also, let's hover over that word expense. I am especially upset and worried about spending money these days. It could be partially because I have very little of it, being off work and what not, but it's also the feeling that nothing is worth money at present. I'm content with my big bed, my bookshelves and my laptop, that's me sorted thanks. In fact the only time I'll let myself spend money is when it's going on someone else; birthday gifts for friends, drinks for colleagues, even today I paid the fee for my Grandad's parking.
For some reason though, yesterday I awoke with the most intense inner urge to go to Hastings (just that alone is shocking enough), get myself (and my sister, perhaps) a decent cuppa or two and then browse in Waterstones for books. I desperately wanted to treat myself to coffee and books. Those are my only vices, it seems. I'll waver over and eventually decide against that cute summer dress or the 79p single download, but I'll spend my millions (which I will earn someday) on a rich beverage and a new release novel. This whole waking up with the desire to buy something, not even something in particular just something under an umbrella, was a breakthrough.
Anyway, I also hate costing people money, which brings us back to birthday presents. I'll say just this now: The only presents I really require are a cuddle and company.
I've written about it before, but no matter how anxious and upsetting the run-up to a birthday is, on the day it's always... Just nice. Waking up in the morning and immediately feeling content and comfortable, getting on with your day and even when your only plans are sitting on the sofa watching daytime TV or driving out to the supermarket for extra hummus, you feel the happy sparkles settling on your shoulders and are safely in the realm of your protective birthday bubble. I'm not anxious about that part, at all.
**Apparently I've written a few of the same type things about my birthday before. Oops. Posts can be found here. Please be kind to me okay, I was younger when I wrote them...**
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