28

So, last Saturday, I turned 28. And honestly, the overall feeling of my psyche was apathetic at best, sleepy at worst. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Perhaps burdened with the weight of this quarter-life crisis thing, or maybe I just lack sleep, some realizations flooded my weary mind when I woke up that noon. One, I'm 28. Two, there will be no drinking today thanks to the liquor ban. Three, I'm freaking tired, physically.
And four, I'm 28.

I really won't consider 28 as some magic number. I was never the type of person who would set fixed goals and plans by numbers. I prefer everything random and spontaneous.
Que sera sera.

But one of the early memories that stuck to my mind through the years was making a birthday card for my mom's 28th birthday. I can't remember what age I was back then, and I'm too lazy today to do the math, but hey, the image is clear - my small hands holding my dad's Yoken markers, writing the number 28 on a small piece of white cartolina.

Why? I don't know. Maybe I've always thought that my mom will always be 28? Maybe I've pegged "28" as some sort of, I don't know, period of maturity? Maybe I thought that by 28 I should have my own family, with my kid giving me a similar birthday card?

I really don't know.

What I do know is that I'm 28, and I'm not that young anymore.