A Birthday Post

My birthday is in two days. When I was little, I used to look forward to that one day in January, marking the days on my sunflower calendar. Presents were always nonexistent in my family so that was not what excited me. Neither did the cake nor the other fanfare that little kids often liked. No, I was the different kid who always chose the dark chocolate over milk. So what was it about that day? I think I simply liked that feeling that I was finally 7 instead of 6 and a half. As the youngest in both my nuclear and extended families, being older was what I dreamed of. I’ve always wanted to catch up to my older sister, who remained, no matter how hard I tried to age, seven years than me. Birthdays were like the checkpoints on a Marathon race; I just wanted another number.

Now, I’m not exactly looking forward to it. In a way, I’m afraid to grow up. I still need the safety blanket of youth on me. And though this birthday will not brand me with the horrendous “adult,” it does bring me one step closer. For some inexplicable reason, I am scared of growing up. What if I don’t fulfill my goals? What if I can’t find the answer to “what do you want to be when you grow up?” even when I am “grown-up”? I’m afraid of failure. I’m afraid of not satisfying the expectations they have of me. Perhaps this is childish, but it’s the way I am..