Twenty years ago my precious mother was about to give birth to a very big, very chubby baby. That baby would be me. September 16, 1997. A day my parents describe as ‘we had a really fun Christmas Eve’. A day I like to describe as ‘half of my friends are born around this time so apparently a lot of parents had a really fun Christmas Eve’.
I’ve always loved my birthday. I love having my family over, I love throwing a party for my friends (I don’t have that many friends so I prefer calling my parties ‘get-togethers), I may also secretly love getting the gifts I’m receiving. As a kid I would never be able to sleep the night before my birthday. I would think about my parents who’d sing me a happy birthday, with their still sleepy voices, in the morning. My sisters, who were already in the middle of puberty and preferred their sleep over me, would even join them too. I would think about all the kids in my school wishing me a happy birthday. I would think about sharing my birthday with my best friend, who’s probably the only person I would want to share my birthday with. Once I got older my parents’ singing would be received with a pillow in their faces and a very grumpy Anouk. My sisters stopped joining them as well. My best friend and I struggled (and still do) throwing birthday parties together and it turned out we had to share our birthday with two more people in high school. But I don’t mind, that just happens when you get older and less of a morning person.
The excitement always stayed until this year. I’m turning twenty in two days and I’m terrified. Because let’s face it; I don’t know how to adult. I don’t know how to be a twenty year old. I don’t even have my drivers’ license yet. Why? Because food. I moved back in with my parents, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about living on my own it’s that I hate living on my own. Or maybe I just hate cooking. And cleaning. And cooking.
People say your twenties are all about being young and having fun. Almost-twenty year old me would much rather spend a Saturday night at home watching vine compilations. Because did I really build a semi social life in my nineteen years of living just to destroy it as I’m turning twenty? Hell yeah, baby.
Is there anything positive about turning twenty you ask me? My answer is yes. I get to bully my parents with the fact their kids aren’t teenagers anymore and they’re getting old. Also I’m one year closer to being able to drink beer in America. All is well, all is fun. I’m just excited to put on my multi-colored polkadot dress that makes me look like a giant birthday cake and make boomerangs to show the world I’m twenty, cause apparently everyone has to know.
I’m one year closer to retirement, baby. Woohoo.