Birthdays have normally been one of my favorite things to enjoy about life; another year wiser, celebration, a time of reflection, and a time to love on the person who made it another 365 days around the sun. I love birthdays, all birthdays--young and old.
Each time my friend has a birthday, I get excited for them. Usually, I pour a lot of effort into birthday cards, picking out the right gift that reflects the person's interests, and showing genuine joy as it really is a beautiful thing for a person to live one more year.
We all know life is precious and time is fleeting, whatever adage stands true, and it is important to celebrate our loved ones and the accomplishments and milestones reached.
However, birthdays are not my favorite this year...as I have reached an important birthday milestone: Thirty. years. old.
I had a panic attack on the train this week. I couldn't breathe, I felt trapped, my skin was crawling, my heart was beating furiously, and I couldn't relax or focus. It was my first panic attack; I only know it was a panic attack because some helpful and insightful people pointed out to me that I have been extremely overworked, stressed, and just not myself lately. Panic attacks don't really need triggers per se, they can happen within an instant because your body needs a physical release from the tension building.
Panic attacks stem from intense fear or apprehension and the body responds physically to protect you from harm. It's an alarm clock, if you will... sounding off to alert your brain that you are in immediate danger. Fight or flight. WAKE UP, JEN... our body is in overload.
Hey body, it's really sweet of you to alarm me that I'm stressed, but it's super embarrassing to hold your head between your legs as other train passengers try to help calm you down. [True story]. I'm incredibly grateful for the medical student who just "happened to be there" and for his calm, assuring, and helpful tactics to help me control my breathing. I'm not entirely grateful for the stares, the whispers, or the overly concerned ladies who wanted to call 911. No thanks, I don't need to buy another ambulance ride here in Chicago [I've already paid for 2].
People who are already 30 tell me that it's no big deal, age is just a number, and 30 is the 20 or whatever advice seems to be hip at the moment. Dirty 30! 30, flirty, and thriving! I could go on...
30 feels impeding because [to me] it means this overwhelming amount of pressure to get my life in order. No more running off to foreign countries to teach English, no more job hopping, time to look for a partner to settle down and have babies, buy a house, buy a car; time to fulfill the "American Dream."
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| Photo by the lovely Cornelia Klimek Photography |
Can I just become Benjamin Button and work myself backwards? Before we know it, 30 becomes 35, and then 35 becomes 40, and then before I know it; I am staring at a woman with wrinkles, grey hair [and not the cool, hip kind] and liver spots. Will she be just as fierce, independent, free-spirited, and adventurous? Will she have lived her life according to the beat of her own drum and not what others expect? Will she have many cool stories to tell? Will she still be tattooed and sporting a pixie hair cut? Will she be alone or loved?
Apparently, these questions were enough to send my body into a resistant state of mind... and I panicked. Big time.
Happy Birthday to me.
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