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I’ve been staring down one of those traumatic birthdays that zeroes out your age. Just as the numbers on a gas pump cycle through too quickly to comprehend, I’ve zipped through the past decade faster than I can grasp. I’m unwilling to leave this personal decade, but I don’t see that I have a choice. When I arrive at the beginning of the new one, will I even know who to be? I’ve never been able to imagine myself as quite that ancient, and yet I will be, nonetheless. How to adjust? How to forge a new identity (without the slightest motivation to do so)? I can’t seem to make my self-image fit my new age. Shouldn’t I be wiser or at least taller?

Whenever January comes around, the past year seems to wither into oblivion, as if it no longer matters. A whole year that once seemed vital and present suddenly appears unreal and hazy. That’s what this birthday threatens to do to the last decade. It’s a wiping clean, is what it is. Mostly, that’s a frightening thought, but it does have its positive aspects. I can forget about all the mistakes I’ve made and get a fresh start. But what’s the use in thinking that way? No one else is likely to wipe my slate clean, just because I’ve become horrendously old!

If I wanted to be optimistic, I could see the 0 not as empty but rather as full. It’s the start of a wonderful new decade, sure to be just as rich and rewarding as the last.

Pfff.

I’ve been wrestling with these issues for a year, and I’ve made little progress. Facing this new age is like looking into the sun. I can’t do it. I can’t make myself take in the indisputable, uncontrollable fact of what I’ll become. So I alternate between obsessiveness and this:
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