Tomorrow is my birthday. Last year, I took the day off but didn’t sleep the night before and tried to enjoy a productive schedule of things that make me happy like yoga, eating frozen yogurt, and watching Mean Girls. I did all those things, but with my mind whirring. Later I drank too much prosecco and left my own bar gathering before midnight (actually, that last one does not signify my depression) to go home and cry til I threw up.
Cella was good. She let me sleep in her bed. But It was a bad time. The only one I wanted to talk about how hard life was post-Clark was Clark. (It kind of comforts me that I still feel that way about a couple of specific things – and not just things that have to do with his death. That he’s the only one who totally gets it.)
This year I’m not fucking around. Jeff and I are driving to Baltimore for matching massage appointments at 11:15. Then brunch at my favorite restaurant, Woodberry Kitchen. Then napping in a glorious four-star hotel I got for a deal on Priceline. Then dinner at my other favorite Baltimore restaurant, The Golden West (fancy American farm-to-table is, predictably, my cuisine of choice).
I still feel kind of weird sometimes, and another year older brings my current issues to a head. Now that I’ve finished training at DCRCC, do I want to go to grad school next fall and become a counselor for real? I can start taking prerequisites at Montgomery College any time now if so, but I haven’t registered yet. I can sign up to take the GREs, but it costs so many dollars. Do I want to stay in D.C.? Well, I have my apartment til next February 28, so for now, I guess yes. BUT THEN WHAT?
While my mind is still occupied at high speeds, thinking about these things doesn’t send me into a panic. So I will ring in my 28th year with my face peeking through the hole in that little massage table donut, and I trust my brain to stay quiet during the rub.