In seven days, I turn 22.
Just seven more days.
I’ve gotten into a habit of counting down the last few days to birthdays. I’m not sure why I do that to myself. It’s not like I’m eager to celebrate my birthday or anything. I stopped getting excited about them when I turned 19.
Cake is cool, though. And presents are thoughtful things. And having an excuse to go home and sleep in my own bed is also quite wonderful.
The frustrating thing is how I’ll be spending my last seven days of 21-hood. I’ll be frantically putting together three final papers, two of which will determine whether I tip fence-straddling grades in my favor. The pressure is mounting to a boiling point within me. It’s very uncomfortable.
I figured that if I stay up late every night, get up early every morning, don’t eat, and don’t socialize for the next two days, I’ll get things done and done well. The prices we pay.
Also, study for a test. Hmm.
Don’t worry, gentle readers. I’ll find something to laugh about in the midst of all this teeth-grinding. I’ll be praying a lot. God has given me grace in the past, He will give me grace in the future, and He will certainly give me grace now.
A goodness knows I don’t deserve a drop of it.