T minus frame of reference.

In one week's time, it will be my birthday. This will be a big one for me. No, not 21. No, not 25. I will be twenty-three years old. As far as milestones go, it's hard to explain why this is one. It's not conventional: it's not a multiple of five and there's no legal or social barricade for me to cross. It's not personal: it's not the age that anyone died or the anniversary of any particular event. Although I guess that's not true. River Phoenix died when he was 23, didn't he? And this will be ten years since my grandfather died and I broke my knee while afloat on the Nile. But this isn't about any of those things.

It's a significant year because at some point, I decided it should be. Back in the day, I was a withdrawn and maudlin teenager with a dead sister and a vivid imagination. And I read a lot of Anne Rice. I love Anne Rice, as I've probably mentioned. It's okay if you don't; it's not your fantasy. It's mine, though. I'd love to be able to talk about her stuff the way I can about Buffy, or Harry Potter, or Veronica Mars, or what have you, but there's a real dearth of kindred spirits available, especially if you're not willing to talk to teenagers or crazy people. It's vampires and/or wizards: that's my stuff. Her books basically fetishize youth and indolence and grief and (O!) The Self. But that's what I like about 'em.   I have 'Things Fall Apart' if I want to read something real.

So, I'm me, 8-13 years back in time, being a youth in turmoil and reading about vampires. And in thinking about things, the way I do, it occurs to me that there's probably an ideal age to be. And I hit on it: 23. Why? I have no idea. That's just the number that came to me. It's young, but not too young that it sounds young. Definitely an adult, and not a child. But it's not too old, either. Respectably prior to the existential crisis of the mid-twenties, although what would I know about that? You're still at that point where potential exceeds presumed accomplishment, but you're not ALL potential, either. 23, I decided, would be the perfect age at which to get married (HA!), have a baby (HA!), live forever (maybe!), or die (fingers crossed?).

And that's it. Even in my own mind, this is not, explicitly, a "get your shit together by" date. But something in me declared that at this time, I should be ready to declare my life complete if needs be. Or to at least say, "Good enough." And that's as much a commentary about acceptance as it is about accomplishment. Of course, the glaring thing about this is: what does a preteen know about being twenty-three ?   That's right, nothing. It's impossible to know about the road ten years down. I wouldn't presume right now to predict what I should be doing in my thirties. I don't know who I will be then, or what I will need. Consider the following. Every night, I set my alarm to a certain time. In the morning, I wake up when it goes off, or, usually, before it goes off. I set it to 15 minutes later, almost invariably. I set a goal, but then, as I approach that goal, I take stock of where I am and how I feel, and I adjust the goals accordingly, with the shrewd discretion granted me by time. This might sometimes be known as "being lazy," but I'm pretty sure it's saved my life a few times. This is why I've never tried to write a novel in a month, and why I never make New Year's resolutions.

So why make a thing about this? I don't know. Perhaps it's because I've felt as if I've been living in a flashback these past few months. I've been mired in a depressive funk, withdrawing into myself more and more, forsaking all others. I've stopped having meaningful conversations with anyone. I have them with myself if I need to. I find myself thinking and dreaming and wondering a lot more, and expressing a lot less than I used to. I've wondered if it's really practical to say anything about it. You can't ask for permission to be a hermit, it really defeats the point. I feel like I'm stuck. The inside of my head hurts and every day I get up and do things I don't want to do and some days I forget what my real goals even are and I'm desperate for a fantasy world to lull myself to sleep thinking about. On the whole? 23 is starting to feel a lot like 13 did. It's like a fold in time made a straight line from here to there. What's the difference? In some ways I missed this. Sometimes I believe that I'm best suited to being alone.

It would be terrific if I didn't feel like I was wasting time. That's the beauty of being immortal, you know: you can be as self-obsessed as you want for as long as you want, until you decide you're ready to do things again. You can actually take a break from life, and show up again later completely intact. You've lost nothing. That's my fantasy. Of course, that doesn't happen. Time moves forward, I get older, and every now and then a panic sets in, right in the chest, that I should be doing something. I should have done something. I should be about to do something. And I'm not. I haven't. I don't think I'm going to be. I'm losing ground. I'm losing time. At times like these I seem very close to deciding to shut down. I don't want to die, but I'm not making any bold strides towards living, either. I'm a character in an Anne Rice book. And I'm about to hit my ideal age.

As for what happens after that, I don't know. I guess I'll make the best of it. I'll see what happens down the road and adjust. This is not me all the time. But this part of me, the part that keeps her hair long and her nails trimmed (just in case), is freaking out. I once wanted to present the Best Picture Award at the Oscars of 1999. That didn't happen, either.

Those who know me are probably keenly aware that I'm infatuated with even numbers, 4 and its multiples in particular. It still baffles me why I would opt to be stuck at an odd number for all time. Of course, as my grandfather would have helpfully pointed out (the one who died a decade ago), I'm about to enter my twenty-fourth year. Fingers have been crossed.

This was hard for me to write. I desperately hate being candid.