My lovely birthday is this week– you know, one of those incredible birthdays that is just close enough to the holidays that relatives can say, “Oh, that gift is for Christmas and your birthday, of course.” I’ve always been a huge fan of my birthday, even getting my favorite number (13) from its date (1/13). Then I hit the wonderful age of 25 and absolutely, utterly, completely freaked out. Having spent the time since high school focusing on college and my career, I looked around at all of my friends from small-town Wyoming that already had toddlers and were well into establishing their families. I suddenly felt way behind on life.
Needless to say, my 25th birthday party was anything but graceful. About halfway through, I ditched it. My neighbor and I snuck out the backdoor of the bar we were at and hopped in a cab to South Beach. We somehow ended up at the most popular gay bar in South Beach, where I immediately fell in love. EVERYONE loved my dress, my hair. I had never been complimented so much in my life. The place absolutely fed my insecurities. The night ended with my neighbor and I eating an entire pizza on the couch of my apartment (FYI- I don’t eat cheese, so that was quite the feat).
It literally took an entire year of ups and downs and discovering myself to finally be comfortable with 25, 26 and now…27. Now when I look back, I laugh that I did not see myself as successful at 25, and felt behind solely because my life didn’t have the white picket fence around it that all of my friends’ did.
