Hitting age 29 and the subsequent after effects

Hitting age 29 (also known as two shakes away from 30) three weeks back was nearly the same as hitting 28 last year, except this year, I found myself looking at rent-to-own houses (just 8,000 for a two-storey house!?) and cleaning my “home office” desk.

Let’s start at the beginning. You can see the two previous birthday posts here and here. This year I celebrated without hoping for fireworks and all that hoopla. (Actually, I was on an oh-some vacation the weekend before the long weekend that my birthday heralded so there’s really no reason to complain. I even got two cakes!) My actual birthday was spent like any normal day, because really, there comes a point when you just fail to give a flying fart about it because you’re up to your neck in deadlines. However, there are certain signs about hitting 2-9 that need to be noted.

First, houses. Last week, Nanay was talking to me about Avida’s condo housing, in which she called 30 square meters “cute.” I told her that we (and all our belongings) would not fit in a cubbyhole like that, and thus I subsequently searched for houses that were substantially bigger and cheaper. Then I started looking for houses that fit my budget, with extra room I could convert to an actual home office. I caught myself about 10 web pages in, while I was wondering about down payment and amortization schemes for a 2-storey, 50 square meter house with a balcony and a garage.

Today, I looked at my desk, which normally looked like a tornado sucked up random shit and regurgitated it on the poor unsuspecting table, and put everything in order. (Family members typically don’t touch my stuff either because they’re afraid they’d accidentally throw away a vital scrap of paper with an important plot point or they’re simply waiting for me to clean my own shit, which never really happens.) Nanay had gotten a small multi-purpose drawer which I immediately swiped and I organized everything into it: bills, writing implements, various screwdrivers, camera stuff, and notebooks.

So yeah. The signs point to an aging sensibility and a warping set of priorities, but more importantly, I realized that I lacked the alarm that came with ‘God, I’m old’ epiphanies. I never really minded how old I was on paper as long as I was left in peace with my Legos, so there’s no “OMFG I’M MATURE LOLz” sort of reaction. I still got hit by the typical hoshit-I'm-29-and-have-nothing-to-show-for-it feeling, but overall, I like where I am and wherever I'm going, I'm going to get there eventually. (Midpoint of writing this paragraph, I obviously forgot what my point was.)

So anyway, 29. Camown mamown, lesdudis.