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Turning 31. What an odd number

It’s not 30, that benchmark to be celebrated with wine and song and dance and a meteor shower.

31. Thirty-one. 

In October, Karen wrote a paean to the joys of getting older. That this will not be. Oh, not that I don’t think Life am good or that I’m not enjoying the 30s. I’m just feeling a bit more contemplative. Autumn often renders me thus.

Oh, who and I kidding. Blah, blah, blah. Self reflexive blah. I think about myself so much that I practically bore me. Then again, the world turns and I get cranky. People grate.

So, Gina, Quinn and myself were on our way to Cirque. Uh, not on my or Gina's birthdays. Quinn couldn't understand the impulse that drives people to reveal their innermost selves on the net. 

Odd really. It seems perfectly natural. None of the shrivel of eye contact. Those silences that follow after you reveal a bit of yourself. Just sweet void. Wondering if anyone is out there as you send your bottled message into electric flash.

Birthdays. The world turns and we turn with it. Becoming the people that we are. Trailing the people that we were behind us like a wending cloth. Picking up the dirt as we go.

For my Birthday, it rained gales and was dark stormy. Night came. I and some friends gathered at Il Fornaio for a birthday feasting. Mostly I just wanted to wear my new orange shoes that match my orange silk dress. I brought plastic bags to protect them from the elements. We all have our priorities. 

We sat and talked of things. T.V. Movies. Life. Gina discussed one of her current interests. I believe they are called Iniagrams. It’s a psych eval thing. She is a 7, which is based on gluttony. She thinks that I’m a 7 as well, because of my apparent gluttony for life. Activities. Projects. 

Now that I’ve heard the descriptions, and had a chance to think, I’m not sure that I agree. Oh, sometimes I'm a 7. But mostly I consume because I'm driven, not because I desire that which I consume. If that makes any sense. Sometimes I'm a 6. My primary motivation for anything that I do is that I can’t stand to be wrong. Vulnerable. Hurt. I'm just not paranoid, which is apparently a big 6 thing. Okay, I think everything is about me, because I am the star of my own drama. And seriously, the slightest criticism grates nerves, last one standing upon.

It's just that if everything is about me, shouldn't I shake my fist to the heavens. Decry that I'm a woman and not a number? Course I'm also an INTJ (Introvert, Intuitive, Thinker, Judging). A Scorpio. A Pig. A Snake. Fire. Catwoman. The Sun. Persephone. Constantly creating costumes that are in some way me. Selecting and discarding the bits to reveal. The bits that don't quite fit. Seeking the center of my personal universe. Examining my faith. My beliefs. Me.

Me. Me. Me. 31. Can't wait until 42, then I'll know it all. Until I forget it at 43.

In the meantime, I want my life am good, because these times that I am living. This costume that I am wearing, are the good times of my life.

 
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