Justified and Ancient

In just a few hours from this time, I will officially be saying, "it's my last year of claiming I'm in my 'twenties'". Damn.

What ever happened to those moments when we'd anticipate our birthdays, plan the party (however phony the 'surprised' reaction was), get excited over opening impeccably-wrapped gifts (be it "assigned"), devour slices of pizza/Buffalo Wings/pasta/dimsum/sashimi/blueberry cheese cake (OK, maybe not in THAT combination), and reminisce of years gone by?

Ahhh...those were relegated to "childhood"...ditto with Christmas, New Year, and Family Day-Sunday. Miss all those.

All I have now is a staggering mélange of peculiar emotions coexisting at almost the same time, it's causing disorder in my existence: anxiety, pressure, indifference, agitation, lamentation, ambiguity, and some other nondescript emotion(s).

Receiving my very first "Happy Birthday, you old man" text message at 11 last night, I was made to think, "what exactly have I done in my 28 years that would get comeuppance for this new year in my life?" In retrospect, I got somehow dismayed, yet at the same time pleased--again in almost alternating intensities.

At 29, I have seen most of the Americas and partly the world; fell in and out of love with umpteen fascinating and stark raving mad individuals; lost three Palm Tungstens; posed nude for a photograph and was placed on exhibit; made love in the setting beach sun; earned and lost in an instant thousands of US dollars; poured gallons of tears over family problems; almost got deported by US Immigrations; published a book of poetry; semi-drowned in deep water; taught over 3000 students and trainees; and found my niche in the corporate jungle.

At 29, I am yet to see New York; take a gondola in Italy; buy my own pickup or Beetle; find my true purpose in life; help my family more; find the one true love of my life; take my picture with the Stonehenge at the background; perform at Greenbelt2 as a regular singer with my all-male quartet (note to self: finalize my percussionist and guitarist); have sex a la Mile-High Club; tattoo my Cancerian design onto my tummy; construct my 4-door rental apartments; get rid of my belly--by good ole workout or lipo-dissolve; make my mark in the HR/Training industry; jumpstart my training consultancy firm; take French lessons; and clean up my filthy condo.

I am [almost] ancient...but justified. When does life really begin anyway? 30? 40?

Dammit. Age is a digit. I stopped counting after 21. Now...time to sleep. I still have to work in 7 hours.