I was miserable on my birthday eve. I was going to turn 23 the next day! Now that’s a whole lot of years. My entire life was flashing in front of my eyes, almost the way it does when you’re dying(I’ve heard this happens). Alright, this may sound taking things a bit too far, but I really wasn’t happy getting old(er). Till about 21, I was fine. 21 is a good age..in fact, it’s just the perfect age. Not young enough to be a teen and not old enough to be, well..23.
What is ironic here is that 23 is my lucky number. It’s my birthdate, and I’m obsessed with the number. But still, this time it just does not provide me with any consolation. I feel old. Probably because I still remember my 16th birthday. It was a great feeling, turning 16. Then came the late teens- 18, 19.. I was getting mature, but not ‘old’. 21 was my favorite as I have already mentioned. At 22, I started panicking. 23..sigh..i’m old.
Or am I? I joined a new team recently, and as it turns out, I’m the youngest there. Hmm, not bad. And in my flat, I’m the youngest again. In fact, my roommate is quite older than me, and she’s loving it. She calls me the baby of the house..and somehow, even I’m loving it 🙂 Perhaps this 23 is better than 21.. afterall I’m a bit more mature, a little wiser and still not 24! 😉