29 is most certainly age limbo.
When you’re 29, you’re too young to bestow wisdom upon others and yet you’re too old to get trashed and streak naked.
29 is not 30 – where both of your feet are firmly planted on the genre of middle aged. Where you are neatly defined.
It’s the age, the magic number, when gravity decides to kick your ass. Now you have to lunge and squat everywhere – while watching TV, while cooking dinner and while shopping for groceries.
Even your boobs have given up.
Colds last longer and you get that feeling that you’re 4 Snickers away from diabetes.
29 is the age when you decide you’re going to die.
To celebrate my 29th birthday a few months ago, I decided I would spend this precious day not with my friends and family – but with my doctor.
I mean, he had nothing better to do.
So I lunged my way to his office and squatted 25 times before I finally placed my asset into the grey plastic seat.
3 hours, 2 hysterical mothers, and 6 cases of bird flu later, I was ushered into the cesspool of life threatening bacteria.
I waited for him to wash his hands before he touched me – but he never did. Even he knew I had reached “that age.” And F.Y.I. you’re not fooling anyone with your empty hand sanitizer and soap dispensers.
“How are you?” He asked tiredly.
“How are YOU?” I shot back aggressively – as if I was fighting for more time.
“Uhh, I’m….good? What can I do for you?”
“My left ear is blocked.”
And not just from my blocked ear.
“Let’s take a look,” he sighed.
After briefly violating both of my ears, he turned to me ,”You’re fine.”
“Is there an infection?”
“Built up wax?”
“Could it be something serious?”
“It could be nothing.” He started nonchalantly filling out paperwork.
It was now or never.
I had to know.
“Can I ask a stupid question?”
“There are no stupid questions.”
“Do I have a brain tumour?”
Slowly, he pulled his stool in front of me and sat down. Arms folded in front of his chest he cocked his head and stared at me.
I could see him trying to assess me – was I being serious? Or was I insane hypochondriac obsessed with diagnoses dished out by Google.
It was obviously the latter.
“Why would you ask me that?” His voice was gentle.
I could feel my bottom lip starting to tremble.
“…Because, I just turned 29.”
Furrow browed, he examined my pupils and decided to entertain my delusional state of mind – most assuredly considering my proclamation as a symptom.
“You don’t have a brain tumour,” he concluded, “What’s really going on here?”
Avidly chewing my bottom lip, I figured – fuck it.
“I’m old now and I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I’m going to die. I’m not a kid anymore and it’s gone – that sense of infallibility – of being indestructible is all gone now.”
“You are old as you want to be, it’s all in your mind – but as for now, you are perfectly healthy,” and with that he opened his door and ushered me out.
And he was right.
So in celebration of his declaration I decided to do what I wanted to do.
Which was not eat it.
I destroyed it.
And it felt great.
Sweet Dreams World.
P.s. I’m back now.