Thursday, January 1, 2015

Twenty-Five to Thirty-Five

It's new year's eve. The old 2014 is about to come to a close and the promise of an even better 2015 beckons. I usually sleep through new year's eve, but tonight I was startled awake by an unknown entity that has absolutely nothing to do with the noise of firecrackers and banging pots and pans.

In the middle of the night, I got up, opened my computer, and started writing. It was a Jerry Maguire moment, when that fuse suddenly blew in my head, cold sweat broke out, and I just had to write, uncaring about grammar or syntax. Write on, write on, you can edit this later. Let the thoughts flow, on and on…

I realized I had this in my subconscious for a while, and it just had to be expressed in due time. I’m suddenly in a state of panic. Palpitations, horrendous images of myself in oversized pajamas that used to be the lower half of my med school scrub suit, frown lines on my forehead, sagging belly, cellulites, my dying eggs, deviations from my planned timeline, and oh I’m am alone, always alone, still alone. In the midst of all this confusion, I am appalled. I am petrified. I realized that I will be 35 in twenty-five days. 

In less than a month,  I will be crossing that imaginary threshold, that thin red line separating the young from the middle-aged. It is the age that separates the "rejects" from the women who are beautiful and interesting enough to be desired by anyone enough to involve them as the other half in a committed (or even a non-committal so-so) relationship. It is the age that separates the old runners from the younger ones in marathons, the age that separates the "high-risk pregnancies" from those who can be seen in regular pre-natal check-up clinics. Hello, Mid-life. You better set up your banners and prepare your confetti for you are about to welcome this fat old Jean into your ranks soon.

I will be 35. I know I should be thankful to even reach this age. Many people die younger than that. Yeah, in the middle ages, or during the Greco-Roman war. But kidding aside, I should just look at the brighter side. I will be wiser. Yeah, right. Tanga ka pa rin sa love, for sure. There are fabulous single women way older than 35 out there who are having so much fun with their lives. Really, can you name anyone? Aaarrgh, these Jekyll and Hyde voices in my head are arguing again. I'm transforming into a Gollum - Smeagol mess. Perhaps I should just shut up and watch them lash at each other's throats.

The point of the matter is: I'll be 35 soon.  And I'm scared. Horrible questions start plaguing my head. Am I a disappointment? Am I a failure?  Will I end up miserable and lonely and bitter and ugly? Will I just be another shark in the big ocean? Another fat, greedy, nameless shark in an ocean of sharks? Does it even matter? If I am a speck of dust in this infinite universe, does one day even matter? Would my life even matter?

I guess I have to stop. I need to stop thinking and start living.

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