I can’t wait to turn 22.
I don’t really have concrete plans yet of how to welcome in another wrinkle in my forehead, who to spend the day/ night with, nor what cake I would like to have on that special day. All I’m certain of is that I’m excited to brush my board squeaky clean and start over.
Birthdays are like personal New Year’s: You wrap up an incredible journey, leave some things and people behind maybe, and move along to the next chapter with clear eyes and full hearts. For many, it means taking on more responsiblities and dealing with the harsher realities of life. And I get why it’s so fearful a day for some —- that turning a year older does not necessarily translate to heightened wisdom. There are still bills to pay, paperwork to wake up to, bad habits to break, heartaches to get over from, and the list just goes on.
As for myself, I’ve got a good three weeks to look ahead and envision what 22-year-old Portia should aim to be. The path’s a little foggy from where I stand, yet there are check points clearly blinking at me: No more obsessing to achieve Kim Chiu’s frame. No more chasing after bad boys. No more overspending on everything that’s on sale. And these are, to say the least, among many others.
I’ve built pretty huge expectations when I turned 21 last year because a whole lot of people were telling me it was the “age of exciting firsts.” I’ve been told stories of such, to encourage me slightly and be pushed to put myself out there more than ever. I guess they were right to a certain extent: At 21 I shifted magazine titles (from business to high society, fashion & lifetsyle…whadddup!), started dating again after a year (eventually, got my heart broken) and got back on the hosting scene (finger guns mah people! HAHA pa-cool lang).
If, like their own stories, they were expecting me to find a great love, do something stupid that borders on immoral or become something entirely different from who I am, then my 21 knew better not to give those kinds of adventures to me. It knew very well that behind the four-inch heels, despite the occasional partying and regardless of my ability to treat coffee like water, 21 never lost sight of the girl who still wishes on shooting stars and flips a coin when choosing which fastfood to go to.
The year that I’m about to leave has been bittersweet in all angles, like it’s the sweet sixteen of the twenties. It has been truly memorable, hugely because of the stupid and pressured decisions I’ve made in hopes of getting across this age with those ”exciting firsts” as promised. Well, looks like I’ve let everyone down in that department. Haha!
And the year that I’m about to enter, I don’t know what it has been notorious for. As of late, no one has volunteered factual information on how 22 has treated them as well as how it might turn out for me.
Or perhaps I don’t have to wait for other people’s stories and labels on the year 22 so that I may experience it fully and in my own terms.