30 (in Beirut 2020)

It’s that time of the year again. Time to let tears flow. Tonight, it’s okay to overthink, to calculate how many years you have left, to spend your time assessing what you’ve accomplished so far, where you’ve succeeded, where you’ve messed up. And then you realize there were PLENTY of mess-ups.
You start remembering school days and the stupid things you did to fit in. Like the time I pretended to have two older brothers because I didn’t like being the eldest sibling. Fadi and Chadi were always asleep and should never be bothered.
Or the time, when I moved to a new school, I lied about not having to wear a uniform at my former school, and I was cool for less than a ten-minute-recess.
You remember the things you never got to say and how your life could have been different if you did. Sometimes you wish for a do-over, but you fear that it could ruin the nice things you appreciate about yourself and your life.

But back to the point, 30% of my life is now gone.

30%? Someone is being optimistic.

If I had written my thoughts and feelings this time last year – I probably did, but I wouldn’t know where to find them – I would have probably talked about my aspirations, the goals I wanted to accomplish before turning 30, the things I wanted to scratch off my bucket list, the places I wanted to travel to, the adventures I wanted to live, the life I wanted to plan for the next 10 years.

But 2020 happened.
It was the most intense year to wrap my third decade on earth. Intense to say the least.
In Lebanon in particular, where you are literally lucky to still be alive.

Thankfully, I haven’t lost anyone. Me, and the people I know and love, have managed to survive the year (12 days left, I don’t want to jinx it). Despite the surrounding risks, despite the virus, despite the explosion, despite the depression, we’re still here. I keep running into these near-misses and I always question if I will run out of this luck, protection, call it whatever you wish.

What mostly changed is that, for the first time ever, I actually feel like an adult. It’s different, it’s bittersweet. I never liked growing up, I always wanted to stay a teenager, read YA books, play games and watch Disney sitcoms, and feel slightly offended that I can still relate to the stories even though I’m much older than the main characters.

But this year, I couldn’t do any of these things. It didn’t feel right anymore. Being in Beirut 2020 didn’t leave room for the child in me, despite all my resistance. It was truly time to grow and be socially responsible, be an activist one way or other, prioritize financial stability, put others first. I mean sure these were all parts of me, but they were never that present in my mind. My brain was too busy trying to understand and accept the concepts of life and death. It obviously failed and now the thought load is so big that things seem pretty jammed up there.

And then a truck driver gives you another near-death experience on the eve of your birthday (another near-miss), and you realize that maybe cheesy quotes and lifestyle books are right. Life is short, and we should do actually something about it. But that thought doesn’t linger because you can’t help being pessimistic pain in the ass, and you love it.

Signed: The Birthday Girl