“What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one.”
I’ve included the above quote because it is one of my favorites; the notion that now that I am 23, I am also ages 1 through 22. That today I am a college graduate student, but also the little girl with the lacy dresses, the baby standing in front of the fridge, pudgy cheeks expanding at the sight of anything but mush. I wear footsies and high heels; I sleep in a crib and a bed with orange pillowcases. I still live with my grandparents, and a dorm, and at home, and in an apartment in Boston. I am all these things. All those people. Happy first birthday. Happy eleventh. Happy twenty-third. Happy birthday to all of me.
An on-the-spot poem about getting older
I feel the same
The photos below are of some of the random places I’ve seen my birth date in the past week. I thought I’d share, because, well, this blog is mostly about moi.
Eleven, eleven, somebody loves me.
|Billy Collins’ Nine Horses|
|Fruit yogurt parfait thing from Starbucks|