As a former goth girl, I feel as if I should be out celebrating the coinciding of Friday the 13th and the full moon.

As a superstitious person, I’m probably not going to leave the apartment. I’m glad I don’t have a PET scan or anything scheduled for today.

The last time Friday the 13th and a full moon coincided was October 13, 2000. It was the day after my birthday. I’m not sure what I was doing. It’s possible I drank a few $3 happy hour martinis then watched the Yankees-Mariners game, because that’s how I spent a lot of my Fridays then. Not that I ever watch sports, really—I just hang out with people who are intermittently paying attention.

The next time this happens will be 2049. (At least it’s before the return of Halley’s Comet, which I missed seeing in 1986.) It’s cloudy and rainy right now, though, so I may have to wait until then. I feel the pressure to do something to commemorate today, though, so I’ve made a moon playlist.

“The Moon Song” by Karen O. This is one of the most recent moon songs, from the Her soundtrack. In 2049, a love story between a man and his operating system will probably seem quaint to our android overlords.

“Bark at the Moon” by Ozzy Osbourne. Of the songs on my list, I think this is the most appropriate for today. Nothing says a full moon on Friday the 13th like werewolves and Ozzy Osbourne in a straightjacket.

“The Killing Moon” by Echo and the Bunnymen. This is one of my all-time favorite songs, so I would listen to this whether the moon was full or not. A lot of people associate this song with Donnie Darko, so there’s something to do tonight. Is watching Friday the 13th too obvious? For me, it would be too scary.

“Moon River.” I saw Sex and the City episode featuring this song before I finally got around to watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Speaking of scary movies, this song reminds me of how terrible the Sex and the City movie was and how it made me hate the series. I suppose if I wanted to be really terrified this Friday the 13th, I could watch the sequel, which looks worse. But Breakfast at Tiffany’s reminds me of the Seinfeld episode in which George Costanza watches the movie instead of reading the book for his book club. I’m full of conflicting emotions.

“Blue Moon” by the Marcels. A classic moon songs. Why are most moon songs so melancholy?

“Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival. Perhaps this is the most appropriate song for today. Just listening to it made me decide to stay home. Despite the foreboding lyrics, it’s pretty upbeat when compared to other moon songs. John Fogerty sounds as if he’s ready trouble and he has everything under control. A few years ago, I got to see Fogerty play a free show at the South Street Seaport, and he performed this song on the banks of the East River, a full (or nearly full) moon in the sky.

“Tahitian Moon” by Porno for Pyros. I suppose a Tahitian moon is very different from a potentially ominious Friday the 13th full moon. One of my friends loved this song when it came out and it reminds me of him and the summer of 1996. It was a weird summer, the last one I spent home from college. I worked at Boston Market before staging a two-employee walkout, and I sold Cutco knives.

“Man on the Moon” by R.E.M. I included this because it’s an obvious moon song, but I’m not really a fan of R.E.M.

“Sexy Boy” by Air. OK, so this song isn’t about the moon, necessarily, but the video is about a monkey astronaut, and the moon plays an integral role.

Enjoy the rare full moon/Friday the 13th combo!

I don’t really notice the passing of time much. I somehow lost the month I was in the hospital, so I keep thinking that it’s May, not June. Summer caught me by surprise.

The recent flurry of graduation photos posted by friends on social media also caught me off-guard. My friends’ kids posed for kindergarten, middle school and even high school graduation pictures.

Then someone asked about my 20-year high school reunion next year. Didn’t I just attend the 10-year reunion? Didn’t I just graduate?

Everything feels like it happened not that long ago.

Part of this is because I have a good memory, or so I’m told. It’s not that I’m particularly good about recalling useful information like trivia answers, deadlines or where I put my phone. It only seems as if I have a good memory, because I can recall events, stories and random bits of information from years ago—a conversation I had with someone in third grade about my Shamu eraser or the night an intoxicated man pulled his classic car into the parking lot where some high school friends and I were hanging out and tried to convince us to drive him home.

It’s sometimes a bit lonely when you’re the only one who remembers something, especially when you’re speaking to someone who is part of your old story. “Really? I don’t remember that,” the other person will say, slightly suspicious.

I try not to respond with the details that I remember, because it makes me sound creepy. But I sometimes find myself saying things like, “Yes, you were wearing your blue Converse for the first time and eating Twizzlers. It was the day before our biology final. Are you sure you don’t remember this?”

I’ve never had a firm grasp of time. Anyone who’s ever waited for me could tell you that. My boyfriend says I have no concept of time—usually while he’s exasperated, standing by our apartment door, waiting for me.

My poor mother used to arrive to places early before my own arrival—an entire month before I was due. She says my birth was the first and last time I was ever early for anything.

Now that I’m older, I am more punctual, but I tend to arrive right on time, never early. I hate waiting. And yes, I feel terrible about making people wait for me, but that’s mostly in the past.

Lately, I’ve been more acutely aware of time, because the past year and a half has been mostly full of waiting. I waited six months for the ABVD chemo to be over, three months for the clinical trial to finish, and a month or so for two rounds of ICE chemotherapy to pass and the weeks it took to complete the stem cell collection. The month in the hospital went by fairly quickly, save for the final week, but sometimes I would look at the clock in my room and watch the seconds pass.

Now, I’m waiting until mid August for my immune system to recover from the stem cell transplant enough to resume some sort of normal. Of course, I also wait for the scan, which could mean more cancer and waiting. After I recover from the transplant, if I get clear scans, I’d like to stretch the time out in between them while I enjoy myself because I’m terrified the cancer will come back, especially since it’s been so reluctant to leave.

For the first time since I was a kid, I’ve wanted time to pass quickly. The good news for me is that when you’re a child, a year seems like an eternity, whereas time seems to accelerate the older you get. My boyfriend says that time seems to speed up because the years become smaller percentages of your life. When you’re 5, a year is one-fifth of your life, but by the time you’re in your mid-30s, a year goes by pretty fast.

My tenuous grasp on time seemed to have loosened even more now that it’s sped up. This makes some people feel old, but I don’t really ever feel old. I’m just amazed that so much time has passed—without feeling as if I’ve aged very much.

I suspect I might just be immature. When there’s a serious situation, I still feel like I need to find an adult, before I remember that I am one. (That doesn’t stop me from looking for another, more responsible adult to handle the situation.)

Aside from the assumption that I might be mature enough to handle important things, I don’t mind getting older, really. I’m still years away from the aches and pains of old age. The only other main downside is that I’m wise enough to be embarrassed of my younger self. I probably can cringe at the person I was yesterday. I know the wisdom that comes with age is hard-won, but I could do without the flash of wince-worthy moments from my past—like worrying I was old at 23 or 25.

I graduated from college just shy of my 21st birthday, so as an employed college graduate, I felt old before my time hanging out with my friends who were still in college or on campus. (I wasn’t a huge fan of the whole collegiate thing anyway, so I was happy to be out of school as fast as I could.)

In my 20s, I worried about getting old. I checked for wrinkles. I actually haven’t worried about getting old since I turned 28. Turning 28 really bothered me. While other people balk at milestone birthdays like 30 or 40 or 50, turning 28 made me inexplicably sad. I saw it as some turning point—I was no longer a kid. I’d have to get it together. At that point in my life, I had a career and a house, but I mourned the loss of my youth. I thought I should feel more mature.

A lot of rock stars die at 27. It seems to be a cut-off point for either being forever young (and, unfortunately, dead) or going on with the rest of your life and growing up.

Since my 28th birthday, I’ve never felt old. I’m glad I experienced the Smurfs, telephones with cords, black-and-orange-screen computers before the internet, the ’90s (giant coffee cups, grunge, etc.). I still miss VCRs and I sometimes try to rewind DVDs like they’re VHS tapes. When I see those lists about what “kids these days” won’t know, I don’t feel old; I’m just happy to experience the time that I did.

I also live in a blissful lack of self-awareness when it comes to knowing what’s cool. When I stop doing something, I assume it’s not cool anymore. For example, I assume people don’t go to clubs anymore, because I don’t.

I’m also surprised when other people see me as older. A few years ago, I took a bus back to Ohio, and during a rest stop break, a man came up to me while I was in line and said, “Young lady, you dropped your smile.” I’d forgotten how friendly Midwesterners can be.

Smiling, I got back on the bus, and a college student asked to use my phone. She called her mom. I overheard her say that she borrowed a phone from “a nice lady.”

Lady? It took on a different meaning than it had only minutes earlier. I nearly interrupted her and said, “I think you mean young lady.”

Since I got all the feeling old part of my life over in my 20s, with no other approaching birthdays bother me, it’s been smooth sailing. I love celebrating my birthday. In a way, I see it as a celebration of youth. After all, I’ll never be any younger than I am on that day. The numbers are just going to keep going up.

My upcoming birthdays are going to be even better, as I hope to celebrate many more to come. National Cancer Survivors Day was last week. I still don’t consider myself a cancer survivor, since I’m not sure if the stem cell transplant got me into remission. I read recently that by 2024, there will be almost 19 million cancer survivors. I hope to be among them. I look forward to the opportunity to get old, and maybe even becoming a nice old lady.