Lately, I am semi-sure that I am mostly becoming an adult.
This month is the one in which I will turn twenty-eight.
I am feeling good about 28.
28 feels like growth and knowledge and learning and possibilities and putting down roots and spreading of wings. It feels like a lot of good things on the horizon, and sometimes it even feels like gurgly babies, maybe, perhaps, possibly, uterus and maturity willing, of course.
Twenty eight is feeling like falling in love with my husband all over again. Falling in love with how young we are, how young we aren't, how grown we've become, how much growing we get to do together still.
Twenty eight is also like falling into comfort with some things I don't want to be anymore. A people pleaser, to the detriment of my own joy. A worst-case-scenario-thinker. A non-coffee drinker.
(Oh coffee, I really like you now. You make me want to wake up early. Which is something that has never been accomplished before. For almost-serious.)
Being an adult, in particular one who lived off of two suitcases worth of items and still had more personal possessions that every Cambodian she met, has also meant purging and donating and throwing things away. Throwing. Things. Away.
I am getting good at discerning priceless memories separate from things. Which might be one of the biggest lessons of becoming twenty eight. Things are things are things. Memories are feelings are joys. And the latter don't disappear or collect dust or take up space. They exist, alongside your soul, inform your decisions and compound every single day's happiness.
Twenty eight is also knowing that Dumbo will still make me cry, Belle is still the best heroine, and that some other child may get joy from my unneeded VHS tapes, which is more than enough reason to part with them.
Yes, the bend toward adulthood is imminent, but I bid a fair welcome to it.