On my last hour of being twenty-seven, I can’t help relishing the beautiful sleekness of the number seven as opposed to the rotund, snowman-like figure eight. I hope this doesn’t mean that my metabolism immediately plummets, obliterating any hope of slimness, much like the change of the form of the digits. It’s been a futile resistance over the past few months, swinging back and forth between plans for the future and eating habits. A failure of self-control.
As they usually are, twenty-seven was a roller coaster of a year, but I’m not sure if I liked it. There were blessings to be counted, and I want to be on the good feelings corner. But I’m not.
Ever since I was eighteen, birthdays have been an emotional mess. I’m usually not sure whether I want to be around company, or wanting to head over towards Antarctica so that nobody can reach me. Crazy, isn’t it? This birthday is one of those. Even though twenty-eight is still young, I can’t help but feel pressure on having made something of myself, in some kind of (I’d hate to admit it but) prestigious manner. Instead, it’s been a humbling year, of decisions that seem to have no discernable direction for now. I feel lost, and question whether I’ve made the most out of my opportunities, or whether someone else would’ve been better off having my life. Even though I managed to finish the 12 week bikini body workout within this year, I didn’t commit to the eating aspect of it, and managed to make my way back to the starting weight. One of my pants have ripped, which was sadly amusing. I haven’t learned German, or Mandarin, or Spanish, or Japanese… No new language. I’ve gained some skills, from new work experiences, but I don’t know where it’s headed. I haven’t been as dedicated to God as I hoped to be, not engraving His Words on my heart despite BSF etc. I’ve met new people, yet I feel alone. To a small extent, it grates on me that during my early twenties I thought that maybe… maybe I would’ve met someone by now who could be a potential partner in life. It doesn’t bother me much yet, but that kettle is hissing from the back burner.
All in all, I feel a combination of aimlessness, failure, unattractiveness, and fatness. It seems like a useless life. This is a lot of sad bickering, but… I feel like crap, and it just needs to play itself out for a bit.
I don’t know where twenty-eight is headed, and it scares me. It feels too late to be ‘starting out’ again, to aim to take care of my body (I still really want nice arms and abs, but I need to put in the work for it if I really want it), and to develop rare and valuable skills… I miss being twenty-five. It’s just as tiring to say that I’ll make it a good year, as it is to try to change my perspective on the present (because maybe they’re not as bad as I’m making it out to be.) But this is where I am. Eventually, we’ll figure it out. Hopefully, soon.