Birthday thoughts.

By: Britt Harvey

In the wake of the plethora of blogs devoted to twenty-something half-sane writers hurling their mostly privileged and tragedy free lives into existence I hesitate, albeit briefly, before throwing this post into the fray.

 All that follows might be a cliché but hey, it’s my birthday and I’m feeling goddamn reflective so cut me a break.

 I’m 27 today. And I am nowhere near where I thought I’d be. BUT WAIT. The previous statement is by no means necessarily followed by a woe is me Angela Chase-ism that laments my paltry and meaningless existence. However, if you want to cut to the quick, my life does not have meaning to a great many people. I can say with the confidence of someone who has re-watched all seven season of the Gilmore Girls repeatedly, I will never find out some mysterious defect in the human genome. Some fastidious gentleman/or gentle person will never bestow me the Order of Canada as my (assumed) elderly parents weep through their bifocals.

 My pleasures, if I may call them that, are pretty tame. I like a good book, a well-told cinematic story, a tasty burger, and a glass of wine. I like the company of my friends, who, when you find yourself far from home in a big city (as people of my age are want to do) become your make shift family. We nurse each other through an uncertain age where we’re told we’re too lazy, too busy, too tired, too apathetic, we care too much, until all the you should and shouldn’ts blend together and we can cull something of merit out of all this garbage and become the fledgling spirit animal of what we’re actually meant to be. These people are my compass. I’d be, quite literally (excuse the horrid metaphor) lost without them.

But yet here I am. Here we all are. In uncertain times. Childless, partner-less, (mostly) job-less. There are a lot of things that freak me out. The environment, for one thing. The slow erosion of democracy by leaders that assume we don’t give a shit. Conversely, the fear that whatever we do, no matter how valiant, will be drowned out by the larger forces of greed and ignorance. Being alone and not having a job doesn’t scare me as much as I thought it would. This is probably partially to do with having grown up within the comforting bosom of middle-class, which I owe to biological luck and the hard work of others. Contrary to numerous Globe and Mail articles and no matter how many Margaret Wentes the world has to offer we (us over-educated and under-worked brethren) are not averse to hard work. Perhaps it’s just that work to us is not just a means to an end (though being able to afford 15 dollar cheese is, I must say, a life long ambition) but a means to other kinds of meaning.

In other words (especially you mom and dad) I’m happy. Sometimes incandescently laughing-through-my-fingers-happy, and sometimes just the hey, I got extra gravy in my take away bag happy.

I’m 27. I am moderately steeped in debt and just last week someone snapped their fingers at me and called me sweet cheeks. But I am happy. And tonight I’ll take the remaining dregs of my bank account and toast a frosty margarita to my future, whatever that may be.


Tags: ,

Categories: Personal Essays


Subscribe to our RSS feed and social profiles to receive updates.

3 Comments on “Birthday thoughts.”

  1. Tiffany
    July 10, 2012 at 12:13 PM #


  2. J Fo
    July 10, 2012 at 6:39 PM #

    In their defence, you do have sweet cheeks.

  3. Kate
    July 10, 2012 at 11:12 PM #

    So happy you are happy…nice to know the kids are alright. I’ll spring for the cheese!

Have your say, leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: