In half the time I'll be twice my age.

There is something you should know about me: Every year towards the end of January, a feeling of dread and sorrow encompasses my mind, and a semi-depressed, anxious girl replaces one that is normally happy-go-lucky and positive. No, it's not the post-holiday winter doldrums that so many can relate to. This perennial blue period is brought on by my birthday. Not many people understand why I get so down about something that many love to celebrate, so allow me to lay it out for you. 

I will forever deny one of the universal traits that nature bestowed upon all of us. You know, aging. I discourage birthdays because for me the concept of “growing up” evokes repressed notions of anxiety with questions like: What have you accomplished? When is (insert major life milestone) going to happen? Or, my favorite, what are you doing with your life? Basically, everything that is wrong with time as principle is brought to light on birthdays, which is why I despise mine. Sure, sure, the attention is flattering and cheerful, but I also find it scalably berating when these gloomy thoughts troll my mind year after year. I have a persistent defiance as to what I want to do with my time; it comes in waves and often leaves me in a wake of subtle depression. 

I've self-diagnosed myself with chronophobia, or the fear of time; it ticks away chances I'll have to accomplish all of my dreams. I'd like to see the world, experience vast cultures, learn new languages, and embrace parts of me that I never knew. I'd also like to have a family and you know, experience good old procreation instead of hear the loud tick of the biological clock. I want to write novels, become a professor, and own a business. I want to have an active career that I love, where I wake up each morning with the sun, smiling in anticipation for my day. But who doesn't? I'm preaching to a choir here, aren't I?

I have so many dreams that when I pause to take a deep breath, another five years have gone by.

What happened to you, Deanna? Why are you like this? Oh, reader, I don't know. Probably the anxiety I gave myself on my tenth birthday when I laid in my mom's bed cuddling with her. She said, and I quote verbatim, "I cannot believe you're double digits. Soon you'll be going off to college and leaving mommy forever." My eyes widened and they've been that way ever since; petrified. From then on, I would think Oh God, this is it. Another year closer to leaving home - ironically, I begged my parents to let me move into my college dorm early, but that's neither here nor there - the anxiety transversed into Oh God, what am I doing with my life?

I'll never forget my twenty-second birthday when my friend Ellie, an intense adorer of birthdays, tried to shed some light on my darkened soul. She found me face down on my bed idly spread out like a starfish. The curtains were pressed against the window to block out the mid-day January sun and my lava lamp illuminated the room with a blood-orange glow. My speakers were buzzing with white noise and I reeked of stale vodka-tonics. I squealed when Ellie drew back the curtains as if I was going to turn to stone. She wiped away my tears while scolding me for being so cynical. "Embrace your birthday as a celebration of life instead of perceiving it as another tally towards death," She advised. Brooding with a furrowed brow, I tried to explain to her some of my then-current concerns. I was terrified of my future, of graduating college, of moving on to the next step, of the change, of any impending wrinkles. I didn't want it to be tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day after that. I know that everyone has similar thoughts and somehow moves on, but I can't help but feel an admittedly over-dramatic burden by them every time I turn another year older. 

The other day when I was hanging out with Iris, my pseudo-little-sister, she nonchalantly said, "Hey, you're halfway to fifty." I cringed, then replied, "What are you talking about? No I'm not." She stared at me, confused at first, then double checked her nine-year-old mental-math and said, "Yes you are." And laughed at me when I continued scowl at her. I wield so much pressure on myself to forget my age that when it's brought up to me in casual conversation while building a tissue box fort for Beanie Boos, my eyes widen in horror.

If I could ask for one thing on my birthday that might possibly help me to shift my perspective to view this January 27th more positively, it would be this: I don't want to be told "Happy 25th birthday", but rather, "Happy you're you." I want to stop celebrating time passing, and I need to start celebrating life.