26 Years Ago, On This Day...

I was born on a stormy evening. Several hours of labor, and me and my big head finally saw the light of day. To think that birth is in itself a triumph. The person faces many obstacles to existence. In a scene reminiscent of the late Beavis and Butthead, a sperm has conquer all other sperms, all of whom have to get through so many barriers just to gain the chance to fight for existence. (From menstrual flows, to selfish would-be parents, the obstacles to a person's coming into being are tremendous.) Even when a sperm triumphs and unifies with the egg, there is still that nine-month period spent in the dark, waiting for the light. So many things could happen. Health complications, parental neglect, pre-natal murder... even here the obstacles to being are legion.

I was an "accident". When I was conceived, my parents were two newly-weds on their honeymoon, holding down starter positions in their respective careers and still living with their parents. (They first lived with my paternal grandparents.) They were supposed to wait two years before having their first child. As usual, I was a wrecker of schedules. Of us three siblings, two of us were "accidents". Only the middle child was "planned". So, my existence is a gigantic middle-finger salute to all the Edcel Lagmans of the world and their bullshit "reproductive rights" and population control policies. And so on this day, I raise both my middle fingers to Edcel Lagman, Margaret Sanger and all like them, for the philosophy that underlies their efforts implies that I am unworthy of life because I wasn't planned and my parents weren't "informed". (In Sanger's case, I am also unworthy because I'm not white.) I invite those who were "accidents" as well to do the same. Thank goodness there was no Edcel Lagman in Congress when we were conceived. 

Now, twenty-six years later, I look at my life...and I don't really like what I see. I am not what I am supposed to be. (Getting there, but, damn if I shouldn't be there by now.) I'm an under-achiever. I feel like time is my enemy. Heck, I am so tempted to stop counting my years. There were days I wish I were someone else. Some people call it quarter-life crisis, and its worse than midlife crisis because I can't buy a convertible or marry my hot, ample-bossomed secretary to escape the pain of being me.

On the other hand, its been a good life. I have good friends. I love my job. Sure, there's no girlfriend, but I walk into a place everyday where there is no shortage of pretty, intelligent women to talk to. I have an awesome family I love, from the nuclear to the extended. And, I know I can do almost anything I set my mind to. (Just slow down the years a bit, will ya, God? Thanks.)

Monday, my friends and I go on a road trip. Great way to celebrate being alive. Can't wait.