Twenty Candles

"You can't be 16 forever."

-Molly Ringwald 

My mom would always tell me about Miss Molly Ringwald and how she was the "it" girl of the 80's. And that is the exact reason why I should not have been afraid to turn 20 yesterday.

For starters, I am the master at the numbers game. The way the game works is one is entitled a number that defines him or her for 365 days. As of yesterday, my number in this game is my 20th birthday. 

When I think of 20, I think of the twenties. 20 marks the start of adulthood; while the twenties mark the decade my parents fell in love. 20 marks the age I am entitled to for 365 days; while the twenties mark the first and brand new decade I will live through without the mom my dad fell in love with. 

But to reiterate, I am the master at playing the numbers game, which is why I did not let my birthday scare me. The thing is, there is a loophole to every game and here is the loophole to mine. Although turning 20 seemed like a page turner for a new chapter of my life that I would have to write without my mom, to define my life in solely written numerical form is to limit myself entirely. 

No matter what number I play in the numbers game, I will always hold the prize of remembering the countless times my mom talked about Molly Ringwald, the "it" girl of the 80's. Therefore, just like that, no matter what number I play in the numbers game, I will forever hold the prize of being able to share all the memories of my mom, the "it" girl of a lifetime. 

And that is the exact reason why I am not afraid of being 20. 

Carpe diem.

Happy New Dear

"Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us."  

- Hal Borland  

Just as quick as the new year arrived, there he was: happy New Dear to me. I swear it was as if he had stolen the imaginary clipboard I carry, which contains a list of all my qualifications (and yes, he even wore plaid without knowing what that means to me).

Just as quick as the new year arrived, there I was: petrified. While I was checking off the boxes on my imaginary clipboard, it was all I could do to rewind my love life in a timeline fashion. There was the bad-boy-gone-good-gone-bad-again who evolved from a silly nickname, to the boy who made a 1,000 paper cranes for me in hopes of making my wildest dreams come true, to my first ever heartbreak. Then there was the skater boy who went from being the guy who's name and hands were practically puzzle pieces to mine to transpiring into my first ever heartbreaking. Which led to the messes that cluttered the time in-between then and now, now being the new year and my new dear. 

Because as quick as the arrival of the new year was the arrival of my new dear.

The feeling that emerged with this new dear was uncanny to the sensation that escalates during the last five seconds before the New Year's Eve ball drops. Except this time, rather than celebrating the new year afterwards, I turned off the TV. As easy as a click of a button, I closed the door on someone who deserves an abundance of my time, or at least time that surpasses a New Year's countdown.

But I am starting to believe that the concept of years and time itself are simply our way of measuring memories and inventing tangible pieces of hope and possibilities. Although I may have turned off the TV on my new dear, I have a whole year to figure out the reason why, which may explain why we make New Year's resolutions to begin with.

Just as I can count on the New Year's Eve ball to drop at a specifically given time, likewise, eventually I can count on my imaginary clipboard to drop at any given time.

And although the countdown has ceased, the TV is now turned back on: Happy New Year's, and eventually, Happy New Dear to me.