It’s weird, to see those numbers typed out. It’s even weirder, to say it out loud.
I’m 27.
Ah, numbers. That’s more like it.
What am I supposed to feel these days? Is there a guidebook to this? When I look around, I see a mixture of dread, sadness and sometimes downright resignation. That getting older means our best days our behind us, that we know our bodies are slowly on the path to decay and that the clock is ticking for those that wish they could have accomplished certain feats by now.
Call it insufferable optimism, idealism, or naivete. I prefer to think of it as hope, but deep down somewhere inside me, I still feel pretty young. That the world is ripe for adventure and that I can take on the future.
My body is definitely not as young (though still relatively). I’m so embarrassingly out of shape. But I still know there are great days ahead. If only because in some ways, my mind is still as if I were a child.
That the future is to be dreamt. That life–while tough–is to be enjoyed, to be fun. And that somewhere, someone is watching and caring for me.
I’ve got an imperfect and loving family, a great new nephew, a ton of friends (both new and solid reconnections with old). I have food to eat, a place to sleep.
Somewhere inside me, I believe I am loved. That’s why I’m alive. That’s why I have been for 27 years.
God, is good.
