I turned 25 last Tuesday, which I think means I’m supposed to have a quarter-life crisis?
Excuse me while I go add that to my to-do list, a list that doesn’t even exist judging by the amount of things I’ve forgotten to do in the last few weeks and months.
I don’t have a lot of thoughts about turning 25 and becoming a year older, perhaps because I’ve spent the last year knowing that come September, my age will increase by one, as it has every September since I was born.
The one thing that I have recognized this year, though, is that I am not much for birthdays. I enjoy other people’s birthdays, and I want to celebrate their day in any way they like, but when it comes to myself I am generally less than enthused. As much as I like being the center of attention in all other circumstances, my birthday does nothing for me.
None of that stopped me from organizing a night out with my friends, however. I collected my various friend groups together on Friday night and forced them all to meet and interact and become friends with one another, so now when I am talking to one person and mention another person, they all know who I am talking to. And as I looked around at the dozen or so people who were able to attend, I couldn’t help but be humbled by the amazing people I have collected in the 2 years since I’ve lived in Atlanta.
Two years is not a very long time, and when I think about what I was doing two years ago I am amazed by how quickly the time has passed. But still, in two short years I have amassed a fantastic group of people who consider me a friend, enough of a friend to drive out of their way and subject themselves to a Friday night at Dave & Buster’s. Even though I sometimes don’t think of Atlanta as “home”, I do feel at home with those people, and I feel lucky for that.
So if that’s what my birthday is about, collecting all my friends in one spot and forcing them to hang out with me, then I suppose I do like my birthday after all. I should have more of them.