I turned 22
yesterday.
Birthdays used to be sacred to me. I would always wait (im)patiently for the next one after celebrating a birthday. But now, I don’t see much worth celebrating in having lived a certain number of years.
If there’s one thing I’ve discovered about growing older, it’s that a lot of things tend to lose their former magic over time. They don’t give the same sense of wonder anymore. They don’t give reason to look forward to them anymore. But in all fairness, that’s childhood in a nutshell - when you’re a child, everything is new and wonderful.
But once you’re an adult, things become less wonderful. They did to me anyway. I don’t much look forward to anything anymore, unless it’s either a vacation or a new video game or an album by one of my numerous favorite musicians. Things like birthdays and Christmas, on the other hand, are essentially meaningless to me now.
The last time I looked forward to my own birthday was when I turned 18. I’d finally be able to legally purchase alcoholic drinks and R-rated video games. It was the pinnacle of years of anticipation. Alas, it didn’t last. Eventually, even that initial sense of wonder wore off.
It didn’t wear off quite as fast as the sense of wonder I had when I got the opportunity to have sex with a prostitute, though. I was 20 years old and still a virgin, on vacation in Amsterdam with my parents. We roamed around the Red Light District, and I was invited in by one of the girls. I still have no idea why, but I only settled for a blowjob from her. The experience in itself wasn’t bad, but it was a whole lot less amazing than I expected.
Anyway, that was the first time I had sex. Hell, it was the first time I was in any sort of intimate contact with a woman. To this day, I still haven’t gone on a single date, much less had a partner. It is kind of saddening to think about, but I don’t feel as bad about it now as I used to.
The funny thing is that I can’t figure out for the life of me where it began. Was it peer pressure? Was it society embedding the idea that love is the source of all happiness into my head? Whatever it was that started it, it haunted me for years. I was obsessed with the idea that I had to get a girlfriend in any way I possibly could.
As you might guess, I never did get a girlfriend. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to girls, no matter how much I metaphorically kicked my own ass. Damned if I could even build up enough courage to take as much as a single fucking step in their direction. While those problems do still persist, I’ve stopped caring about them in a sense.
I’ve only realized fairly recently that I don’t need a partner in order to feel happy. My family and friends bring me enough happiness, not to mention my dear hobbies. But if love ever comes knocking at my door, I’ll happily invite it in.