Twenty Nine — Coffee & more

“I had to learn not to be afraid, which is much harder than it sounds. I am very proud of having accomplished this.” - The Broken Kingdoms, N.K. Jemisin

Early teens, late teens, early twenties, late twenties. Gulp.

These brackets have been around since I turned a teenager at 13. People told me this was big: my dad decided to have a big celebration. I can remember the pink salwar suit I wore, which was incidentally hand embroidered by my neighbour for my 13th birthday. I had short hair, the best birthday cake and presents. So many presents. It was a big deal.

16 years later, I still have short hair and it is still a big deal. My birthday is always a big deal. I love to celebrate and anyone who knows me, knows this. From celebrating the most arbitrary: the anniversary of my job to the grandest thing: wedding of my best friend. I know that this is the only way to live. To celebrate every single joy, so when the time turns you know there will be celebration waiting at the end.

Growing up, my family celebrated everything. From birthdays, festivals, anniversaries, promotions, academic achievements to even end of exams. This might sound like a low number but I grew up in a joint family and we were 15 people under the same roof: 4 kids and 11 adults. Basically every other week was a celebration. You don’t know what your values are, and how much your experiences have shaped you until you’re old enough to question why you do what you do. So, yes. I love celebrations.

Moving on to the real reason I am sitting inside a room in Barcelona on my 29th birthday (the last of the late twenties) and writing this post instead of going out to celebrate. Celebrations are empty without people. No, I am not sad. To be honest, I am having a great day. It just could be any other day, and that seems like a pity but if you celebrate all days, it is hard to argue that your birthday should feel special. I come to the realisation that when you’re older, birthdays become about getting that odd text from a friend, drinking a lot of tequila and de-stressing yourself in one way or another.

All life seems to be a cartwheel you’re running like a hamster, non-stop. On your birthday, you go and relax as a celebration.

I tried to make it a celebration: my plan was to order beers and cake to my office and on our bi-weekly video call enjoy drinks remotely, together. As it turns out, the beers never got delivered, the video call was meh and I wasn’t in a mood to celebrate in that manner. Why? I am no longer cartwheeling and shots of tequila are more stressful than relaxing. What I am trying to say is: this is my celebration. I am celebrating my time of earth by writing about it. I suppose there’s irony in there somewhere.

As self obsessed as I am, I wrote a letter to my 29 year old self last September. Here is an extract from it:

Yes, I wrote that. Even I find it, hard to believe.

There were questions I had asked myself in that letter which I’ve pondered over in my flight to Barcelona. Most of those questions have become arbitrary which goes onto show that my priorities have changed. But, there was only I thing I wished for and that was change. The arrow of time forbids me but I would like to tell my old self that I did change. It took a while for change; to break free out of self-loathing, to set free desires I couldn’t control, to stop validating my self-worth via others. Most importantly though: to accept the mistakes I had made, and to carry them with me instead of burying them in me. To become brave enough to say I fucked up bad. I have lived the last year in glory and, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My greatest gift to me is me. Flaws and all. This is all that I’ve got. And this, is worth celebrating.

“Happy Apoorva Day”