scribblechic

Some days I scribble the word or sketch the number with the same curious fascination I once drew my husband’s family name, sounding out the word for reassurance and resonance. It seems at once amusing and impossible, a trick of deception that I might wake up months from now another version of myself. Names and numbers inconsequential mirrors of meaning.

Unlike birthdays past that welcomed the weighted freedom of driving or the privilege of participating in elections, this new milestone seems an elaborate illusion of make-believe. Like misfit toys or an island of lost boys I feel contentedly unqualified in my absent maturity with no desire to feign a more sensible expectation of adulthood.

There are no aspirations of accomplishment to mark the occasion; no destination that designates the culmination or commencement of adventure; no marathon that tempts my endurance or material possession that honors the accumulation of years. Not one for extravagant displays of celebration, I want to invite a childish enthusiasm to this occasion least I take myself too seriously and the blessing of good health for granted.

I am reminded of discarded notebooks crafted in the unknown in-between of college friendships on the cusp of marriage and motherhood; empty pages weighted with magazine cut-outs collaged into a subconscious map of dreams. I’m looking to the margins of my thoughts for an excuse to doodle the future into my consciousness with playful anticipation and personal significance. Collecting my wishes long before I have an excuse to circle candles on a cake.