Not gonna lie: 33 sucked.
Yes, yes, some good things happened, and no, nobody wants to hear more whining. But being the primary expert on my own life, I can tell you that 33 has been a historically bad year. “Nightmare” has been a recurring emotion. I have frequently visualized my mental state as the death of the bad robot in Terminator 2—flexing panicked through a series of identities in the vain hope that one of them will be the trick to getting out of the molten steel.
(Heh, now that I look at it, that clip actually feels more melodramatic than I meant it to be—it was mostly the last face turning itself inside out that I’ve been visualizing.)
Anyway. Contemplating a year older is always surreal, although I suppose I’ve coasted pretty blithely through the last few. This year, in addition to the special crappiness of current nostalgia, the cast on my leg certainly adds to the surreality.
Nightmares—and most dreams, really—carry this feeling of suddenly “waking up” and finding yourself in a totally different reality, as though you’d lost track and forgotten what “real” really was.
On Thursday, I’ll wake up, alone in my bed, in my own apartment, on a tropical island, with my leg in a blue cast. Listless, goalless.
Independent of each other, in and of themselves, these aren’t necessarily unfamiliar circumstances. But there’s a gulf between the age they were familiar—say, 24—and the age I will suddenly find myself: 34. And that makes everything surreal indeed.
Well. I’m a big fan of contented predictability. But I suppose if things can go so strangely at 33, then there’s no reason they can’t get even weirder from here.