I turn 24 today.

I’d like to stay 23.

About a year ago, I visited Natalie (of TOD fame) in Oceanside, Calif. (That’s where she calls Home these days). We went to the San Diego Zoo where we watched flamingos and talked about life. And then we went to Cornado Island, where we went to the beach and we talked about… well, life. Specifically I remember two conversations. Only one is relevant to my topic here: my birthday.

Twenty-three was amazing, at least for her, Natalie said. I was in for a treat. She was excited to be a part of what would happen to me at 23. I’d be graduating from college, starting a “new life.”

We perused the gift shops at the Hotel Del Coronado, and Natalie tried on a big, black, floppy beach hat. (She tried on a similar hat at a different store when I was in Oceanside a couple of months ago. It seems she hasn’t found the perfect big, black, floppy beach hat yet.) I eyed a book of poems about birds. We chatted about life some more.

A few weeks after I had visited Natalie, I received a birthday package in the mail. It turns out Natalie was the only gift-sending friend to whom I had neglected to tell a very important piece of information: I had canceled my 23rd birthday. I was excited to be 23, yes. But I was not ready or excited to celebrate a birthday.

My birthday experiences had not been wonderful in the past, so I was skipping all that. I’d be 22 one day, 23 the next. That was all. No fanfare, no pomp. No circumstance.

Then came Natalie’s present: the book of bird poems from the Hotel Del. With the book, Natalie included a card. She reiterated what she had said at the zoo and at the beach. She told me she believed in me. And that she knew I’d have a wonderful 23. She said she was glad we were friends.

With that tiny package — a manila envelope, folded over and taped for security — my avoidance of my birthday was impossible. I cried (in more than one go) and thought, and mediated and thought some more. My conclusions included (heh) the following:

1. I have wonderful friends.

I was grateful then (and am grateful now) that I had friends who respected my need to ignore my birthday in 2008. I was also glad to have Natalie — a friend who wasn’t informed of the birthday hiatus who felt a book of poems (really, a book with reminders of our friendship and our discussions at the zoo) and a reminder that 23 would be great was a necessity. (It turns out, she was right… about at least two things. First, that the birthday recognition was important. Secondly, that 23 would be my best year yet.)

2. I was a woman.

Twenty-three is a weird age. For me, it was strange to be in college but ready to be an adult. I had just taken on puppy raising — being the guardian of a future service dog. I was making decisions based on the needs of something other than myself. That was new for me, and it forced me to grow up.

Socially, I was an adult, too. I was ready to evaluate the relationships in my life and choose to pour time into those that were mutually beneficial and to end those that just weren’t working anymore. This was a painful process, one I sometimes find myself reevaluating even now, but one that I needed to complete to be fully myself.

3. Twenty-three need to be be “dude-free” so I could find myself, define myself and love myself.

This turned out to be an excellent — if flawed — plan. I spent my last few months of college free to flirt, explore relationships and dream about life outside of Kansas, because I chose not to be available. I was single, yes, but far from interested in changing that status. I learned how to turn down requests for my number (that sounds like I was being asked all the time… and, surprisingly, I was. For the first time in my life, men wanted to know how to get in touch with me… just as I had decided they didn’t have a chance.) I also learned how to flirt… how to let a conversation be a good time, and just a good time. There were no strings, no commitments and, absolutely, no second dates.

So here I am, one year after my birthday-free change of age and Natalie’s prophesy has come true: 23 has been my best year yet. I still have great friends; I still feel like an adult. I’m now a Californian… a two-hour time change or 24-hour drive from everything I grew up with. I am a mom — albeit to a puppy, not a person. And I am happy. So happy I’m not sure what to do with it sometimes.

As for the dude-free year… well… that’s another story.

When I was in high school, I was the kid who packed every book she could possibly fit into her backpack. I’d walk around school needing 18 extra inches of clearance behind me, wobbling under 70 or so pounds of books. (At least, it felt like it.) I loved going to college and being able to pack books for only one course, and the feeling of my slim Timbuktu bag slung over my shoulder was my symbol of freedom from the strictures of three-minute breaks between class periods.

Now that I’m back in grad school, and biking four miles to get to school every day, I’ve pulled out a trusty REI backpack and begun carrying everything I need for the day in there. Folders, planner, laptop, textbooks, lunch, a clean shirt: once it’s all in I again look like the overeager high schooler who wants to be prepared if her World History teacher wants to point out a map on page 463 of the textbook. Add to that the need to bring things like a study Bible (which answers the question: what would the Bible look like if every verse had a footnote?), and you come to a picture of me biking up the hills of Berkeley, fighting the downward momentum of my ridiculous backpack.

The bike ride takes about a half hour, which means getting up at what I formerly considered ungodly times to get to my 8:10 a.m. classes. It also means I try to wake up as late as possible in order to maximize sleep, so I’m usually rushing in the mornings and throwing things in my backpack at the last possible minute.

The first week of grad school was a little overwhelming — learning my schedule, getting to know my professors, coming to the dawning realization that there was no way I’d ever get all the reading I was assigned done. The stress, and the lack of sleep, had me exhausted and frazzled on the first Friday of classes as I got ready for school. We had our “Mass of gathering,” or opening Mass of the school year that day, and so I packed a dress and some nice black shoes in my backpack to change into once I got to school.

As my roommate and I sat down for our first class, panting and sweating, I opened my bag. Sitting on top was one Birkenstock and one black high-heeled shoe. In my rush to get out the door, I grabbed two black shoes, and wasn’t concerned with the minor details after that. Such as whether my shoes were the same height.

But the sudden absurdness of it made me laugh. I pulled out my shoes to show Sara, my roommate, and she laughed, too. I realized the ridiculousness of feeling so rushed, and resolved to give myself the time I needed to adjust to this new lifestyle. Sara later went home and brought back the lonely other halves of my two pairs of shoes, and I stood tall and even as I sang in the choir for our Mass of gathering. I breathed deep, looking at the many faces I already recognized from my first week of class. And I know that the reading will pile up, my backpack will continue to weigh me down, and sleep may become scarce and precious. But I know that I’ll at least give myself the time to really look at what I carry with me along the way, to make sure it’s necessary and useful and not cluttering my life with its absurdity.

My husband and I like to have people over. One of our favorite things, when the weather affords it, is to gather around the fire pit in our backyard with friends and family while talking and laughing into the night. There’s something completely removed from the mundane routine of life when you are sitting under the stars and sharing hot cups of coffee or cold beers with people who can make you belly laugh for five minutes straight.

Recently, we had two of our couple-friends over for a Mexican dinner. We had tacos, enchiladas, guacamole, chips and salsa and watermelon. We heaped our plates full of food, stuffed ourselves and enjoyed each other’s company around the dining room table. Afterwards, the boys headed outside the start the fire while the girls helped me clean up. We started a pot of coffee, and began collecting camping and folding chairs to take out to the backyard.

Sometimes in the midst of nights like this, I step back and am surprised at the years that have gone by; the people we find ourselves surrounded with; and the ease and subtleness with which adult-life has sprung upon us. Often, I feel I am perpetually 18 years old, even though my life doesn’t reflect it. I sometimes still feel awkward ordering a drink at the bar, partially feeling like I’m not old enough to be sitting there. I sometimes am still surprised to have been married already for almost two years. I sometimes feel the same fears and insecurities I did at 18.

This particular night, I feel like a kid again in a good way. We roast marshmallows, laugh as we accidentally drop them into the fire, and make carefully-constructed s’mores. I feel like a kid again because we are laughing so hard I almost fall out of my camping chair, and because we are telling silly stories and making jokes.

But when things quiet down, one of my friends brightens. She is pregnant, and said she just felt the baby kick. My other friend and I immediately reach over and place our hands on her belly, staying as still as possible, hoping we feel the flutter.

As I look at my beautiful friends, their lovely faces smiling in the light of the fire, focused on a tiny growing life, it hits me again that we are old enough.

We are old enough to start families, to love these babies we haven’t even met yet, to support our friends who are new moms and dads. We are old enough to BE moms and dads. We are old enough start (or end) careers; to be teachers and nurses and doctors and lawyers and writers and business people. We are old enough to plan and save for vacations. We are old enough to have mortgages and cars and 401k’s.

We are old enough to have experienced intense joy and debilitating grief. We are old enough to know life doesn’t always pan out the way we plan. We are old enough to be OK and settled into our lives and to do the best that we can. We are old enough to appreciate the little things.

We are still young enough to dream, but old enough to understand life is more than what we do. It’s who we are and who we love.