Having been denied all birthday celebrations until I left home at 16, I was always determined to mark subsequent birthdays well. I’d go to bed the night before in a juvenile state of anticipation and wake up ecstatic that I had survived another year, that I had proved them wrong and outrun the apocalypse. You see, I was brought up as a Jehovah’s Witness and believed I would die in 1976 when Armageddon came. I would never reach 30, 40 or 50 so I thought. So each birthday has been a shaken fist at the heavens well as a celebration.
My 21st lasted three days: drink, drugs, dance and a very long sleep. I came to and felt I’d finally put the cruel denials to bed and maybe that a three-day party would last me a lifetime. But I had a party for my 30th, 40th and 50th. OK, not three days long but a bit of a bash that welcomed in the next decade. So far, so good. And next year I will be 60. I thought the prospect would feel the same. That I would sashay up to the date, throw my arms out and say “welcome” as I had to all the others. But this one feels different.
Continue reading...from The Guardian https://ift.tt/2SqweHM
via
0 Comments