Shortly after 9am this morning I turned 25.
And for some reason this birthday freaks me out. I’ve never gotten too worked up over turning a new age, but somehow this one is different. Not just because between 18 and 24 not much changes (well, besides the 21st). Not just because after today I’ll be working on 30. (Ok, I’ll admit that maybe that does get me a little.)
What’s bothering me is somewhat less tangible and difficult to put my finger on. It’s almost restlessness, but more than that. I’ve mulled it over a lot over the past month or so. All I can describe it as is an undercurrent of restless discontent. I feel like 25 should be a milestone, but it’s not. I should have more to show for 25 years on this planet. I wanted to accomplish more before a quarter of a century passed. Don’t get me wrong–I’m not looking for fame or a way to save the world, but I feel like I’m in a race to get more things done. Honestly, I’m not sure what or why. I have a college degree, I’m married, I co-own a house. I have a horse farm, which was always a huge goal of mine. (It’s admittedly a small one, but it’s a farm.) I’ve taken steps towards establishing it as a business. It’s not all the way there, but those things take time.
Those are all things I’ve done in the past 7 years.
It just doesn’t feel like enough.
Perhaps it’s because I spend 40+ hours a week in a place I don’t want to be, doing things I don’t want to do. Maybe a job I enjoy and want to keep will make me at peace with 25. Maybe having a career, with a foreseeable future and honorable goals will make the difference.
Maybe I’m unknowingly longing for the Master’s degree I didn’t pursue. That was a goal that I never fulfilled. But giving up grad school was a conscious choice. A choice I made so that the future hubby and I could move to Dayton and, ultimately, commit to spend the rest of our lives together. Nobody forced me to leave it behind. Besides, if it had been that important to me I would have found a way to make sure I went back to school. Yes, I still think about it. But, as far as I can tell I’m not pining away for it.
Besides, it’s just a title. A piece of paper.
Or perhaps this is all baby longing in disguise. I like to watch babies. I want them.
Well, I used to think I wanted kids without any reservation. Now, I’m not completely convinced. Hell, I’m not even convinced I’ll make a good mother. I mean, I think I will, but how do you KNOW? I know I don’t want to share my hubby…at least for a while. Selfish, I know. That’s one reason why I’m not sure about being a mom. I’m too selfish and hot headed. Not really mommy qualities. I assume those things will sort themselves out in time. Honestly though, there are enough bad parents in the world…there’s no need to reproduce unless you’re 100% sure the resulting children will have a great home life. I always wanted to be pregnant and give birth. The part I never thought about until recently (i.e. the last 5 years) was that you’re responsible for the resulting child for the rest of your life. Talk about commitment–the choice to become a parent is more serious than the choice to marry someone!
I know it’s a bit odd that I always thought about being pregnant and giving birth rather than raising children, but it’s not so weird when you remember my mother makes her living assisting mothers as they bring their babies into the world. Other little girls played with their Barbie’s or baby doll’s hair. I ‘gave birth’ to my baby doll. I know, I know. Freaky. But I grew up believing that giving birth is the coolest, most wonderful thing a woman can do. 
Anyway, I’m not sure where this turned into a dissertation on my views of becoming a parent instead of me trying to convey why I’m freaked out about my birthday. But…yeah. That’s about it. The bottom line is that I don’t know why this birthday. But this one is somehow more serious, more important. More bothersome.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll be at peace with 25, but as of today I’m not quite there.
Aspiring Alverna 
