Every Monday I think I'm not going to make it. I look at the 8 classes that lie in the day ahead, and then I look at the other 31 classes plugged between now and Friday evening and think, "surely, this is the week they'll eat me alive." Yet some how, by the grace of God, I'm still able to get out of bed every Saturday morning. It may not be without a few bumps and bruises, or tears, or curses, or desires to drop kick people in the head, but I make it. And I'm often accompanied by enough laughs and discoveries that it makes it all worth it......
Yesterday was my 25th birthday. Its a birthday that seems significant - like 16, 18, 21 - except nothing happens. It was kinda like turning 10 or 20, except with those I could say I exited the single digits or the teens; now the only thing I can say is that the possibility of turning 30 actually seems, well, possible. It's not necessarily depressing, but I wonder when people actually feel like an adult When am I out of excuses, because sometimes I can still think a handful of them.
The evening, anyway, was marked by a nice dinner and dessert with girls from church. That, and a letter. When I was 17 years old, months before I graduated high school, I wrote a letter to myself over 7 years in the future. I had forgotten about it until I was getting stuff together to move to the other side of the world. I brought it with me, still sealed, and opened it just yesterday. As cheesy as the whole operation sounds, it was quite brilliant. Of course, some of my perceptions and aspirations have changed over time and aren't the same, but the fact that I told myself to make sure I took a trip to Ireland by now because I've wanted to since I was in grade school or to continue to pursue writing............is pure inspiration.
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