The Five Days It Took to Turn 30

On Thursday I awoke to the faint scent of change in the air, not unlike the first brisk breeze you feel in late September. But this was not Fall. This was something called ‘thirty’ and it awaited me, ready or not. I didn’t know how it would go down or exactly how I felt about it, only that behind mundane tasks and in the corners of rooms, there it was; stirring, growing, counting down. It caused nervousness, yes, as change often does, but it also caused excitement and irregular bursts of recklessness. At the Circle K I always frequent, I ignored regular intuition when I saw a snickers bar and desired it, but had not yet eaten dinner. I watched myself grab it as though it had always been mine and Circle K had taken it from me. I plop it on the counter feeling proud and dangerous. I’m turning 30 soon, I don’t give a shit.

On Friday, the upcoming change is no longer a scent in the air, but a big red X on the Calendar. I only have a few more days of my twenties and I need to make it count. I have an outdoor lunch with college friends. I keep the conversation fresh. When it hints at boring I steer it another way. We can’t be talking about strangers I don’t know or things I don’t care about at my birthday lunch! It’s so self-involved but I don’t care, I’m trying to get to the root of something. I ask my friends a lot of questions about the states of their lives, all of which appear far more together and grown up than mine. (Jobs, marriage, etc.)  But beyond that I’m trying to gather information. Something within me is trying to assess whether we’re happier now than we were five years ago. I guess I need to know that life gets better with age– a concept I’ve heard but don’t wholeheartedly buy yet. The conclusion is nearly impossible; there are too many variables. When one friend suggests mani/pedi’s I think YES. I need my nails to be in shape for this milestone. I struggle choosing a nail color that complements my mature new age but also suggests my daring nature. (Snickers) I pick a bright, corally orange color. It’s a risk. It’s no ‘soft rose’. But I’m turning 30 soon. Let’s do this ‘cajun shrimp’!

On Saturday, the softest sound of a ticking clock can be heard everywhere I go. Is it my ovaries? Is it the countdown of my ending youth? Hard to say. My body is tired from the muted angst of the last few days and the poor diet choices I’ve made on account of feeling ‘risky.’ I rest a few hours while second-guessing my nail color and making a mental list of people 30+ that are still rocking it. Oprah..Rob Lowe..Kanye.. Next I head to Magazine Street to find the outfit I wish to turn thirty in. I visit my favorite places, and when the sales girls hear I’m turning thirty tonight they say “Awwwwwww” as though I were a wet, lost puppy. They also become exceptionally helpful. Like Don’t you worry girl, we’re gonna get you through this. As I accrue a large ‘no’ pile in the fitting room, finally I’m brought a navy blue floral romper. In the mirror I think This is it. This is the one. Sophisticated print but youthful as a romper. Also my butt looks really good.

Tonight I will have drinks with a couple of friends at Cure, a snazzy bar where our close friend works. I shouldn’t drink. My body straight up rejects alcohol in the form of migraine and then general disintegration of entire body systems, but the cocktails here are good and of high quality. They’re made by mixologists! And at midnight I’ll leave my twenties forever, so gosh darn it, I’ll have a drink or two. A few friends retire early leaving behind my BFF Kaitlin (aka Matt Damon) and the progressive boy I’m dating. He doesn’t like this ‘ritzy’ bar. Something about everyone having on the same outfit. Our friend brings “shots” for the stroke of 12. When the iPhone flashes midnight, we yell and cheers and drink the shot, which tastes like youth mixed with jolly rancher. Kaitlin snags this gem of a photo which at least half conveys the mixed feelings I had.

I’m 30 and I don’t understand my feelings wahh

I am technically thirty now and I feel the burst of recklessness. Should we get forties and go to the park? Light some fireworks maybe? But the progressive boy I’m dating suggests I take it easy. We still have my actual birthday tomorrow. He’s right. We go home.

On Sunday the big day has arrived. I’m getting phone calls and texts while I lay in bed and I’m like Oh My God, I love birthdays so much. I didn’t even have to do anything and look at all this positive attention I’m getting! It’s like You’re welcome for being born I guess?  I soaked in all that love pouring in. Then I realize the small get-together at my pool is supposedly starting in an hour. I am crazy late, it’s raining, and the pool turned green overnight. With the help of friends we pull it together. Three different people give me flowers and it makes me so happy. A few of the people at the party I’ve never even met before, and yet somehow almost immediately, a fun and comfortable dynamic forms. One of those perfectly random social events that could never emerge through planning. We swim and philosophize and do birthday things, including passing around my cake in a circle and taking large bites out of it face first. (Kind of what one-year-olds do on their first birthday) We play a very loud game of Scattergories that turns competitive quickly. There was erratic dancing and a four-part belting of It’s All Coming Back to Me Now by Celine Dion. At one point we were gathered around watching Blue Planet in awe of the earth like Whoooooooa and Woooooooooow! Looking around in that moment I thought Dude, this is perfect. We stayed up late. I guess adults still do that.

On Monday I awake to the haze of a good-time had and party remnants littering the floor. My body hurts. The pool looks hungover. Even Monty is lethargic. I briefly assess the damage and ignore it, eat a ginormous bowl of Kashi cereal and fall back asleep. When I re-awake, I attempt to “tidy up” but it’s useless, and laughable. I try to avoid that Sunday type of melancholy that comes after you’ve had a really amazing time with people and now you’re alone in the aftermath, remembering the fun. I plop on the couch and spot a large vase holding all the different flowers I was given. It’s cliche and sappy, but I feel a tinge of gratitude and then it explodes exponentially. I don’t feel old, I feel lucky to be alive and to know the people I do. I feel grateful that the people I like actually like me back. So many showed their love to me–In person, people from the past, strangers on the internet, my best friend from kindergarten on FB. It all just overwhelmed me for a minute. I’ve got a family that’s solid and friends who are true and a dog that jumps high and loves endlessly. If I were a sap on Twitter I’d be like Feeling #blessed.

But I am not.

Turning thirty didn’t change much about me. I feel the same, my battles remain and I’ll continue to do my best. But unlike other birthdays, it finally took me outside of myself, even though it began the opposite. Among the cups and pizza boxes, I felt weirdly inspired thinking of the people in my life. It’s not that they love me, it’s that they love at all. That they’re out there with their own battles and they’re trying too. There’s no one way to do it and we’re all just learning as we go. But thinking of them made me want to try harder. And do better. Not because I’m 30 but because I’ve been shown such incredible ways to go about living and loving– It’d be a waste not to learn from such awesome people. And that’s why it was silly relying on others to prove to me that life gets better with age. Surround yourself by the right kind of people and they are the proof. Life gets better because we get better. We know ourselves deeper, which allows us to understand the world more and care about others opinions less. It’s a simple concept I guess. Luckily it only took me twenty-nine years to make some sense out of it. Twenty nine years and five days, that is.

Thank you to everyone who helped me ring in 30. It was truly righteous.

Health, Happiness and The Five Days of Thirty

 

Push the Boys Into the Ditch; My Grandma’s Perfect Love Advice.

Do you ever go through something that is both presumably necessary but incredibly hard and subsequently feel the weight of the world baring down on you as if the gravitational pull changed and it was all on account of you doing something possibly stupid but possibly necessary? Me either, life is easy and fun!

While my health has to continued to sustain for reasons I can’t entirely know for sure, I’ve had some personal experiences which are difficult and painful and every time these things wash over me I examine why life has to be hard (as if I actually expected it to only be easy) and then I wonder does life actually have to be this hard or am I just doing it wrong?  I don’t know the answer to that one. I guess we can only learn as we go. I find myself telling Monty to never fall in love because it leaves a mark on every part of your life and ultimately it changes you, whether you wanted to or not. But then I watched the neighbor dog humping his owners leg and considered that obviously the alternative isn’t so much more grand. Though there’s an appeal to that leg–it’s not going to keep you up at night with heartache and strife. Or maybe I’m too quickly assuming here, maybe I should ask the dog.

Yeeeeah Legs!

Yeeeeah Legs!

Of course this fantasy that life would be easier and less painful without this or that is just that: a fantasy, a slight rejection of reality. But maybe more detrimentally, it presumes that somehow as humans we know better, and we know the answer to what would make life easier or more tolerable. As if life isn’t some ridiculous, complex mystery that has an infinite amount of working parts we as finite humans can only momentarily grasp, if ever at all. And I’m not struggling with an idea that every human for thousands of years hasn’t experienced pain from and questioned the value of. We’ve all been through it. Wondered if the pain in the end was worth the utopia in the beginning. I like this quote about it: “Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear.” by e.e. cummings. Would I really choose an option where falling in love wasn’t part of the equation? Duh, no. That’d be insane and cowardly and boring. Love is a remarkable gift, with perhaps its best quality being that of illumination. I like how sometimes it picks us, even when we’ve turned our backs on it or given up on the idea. I like that it takes us places we wouldn’t go on our own. I like that it makes even a worn-down curmudgeon feel giddy and silly and do things he thought he’d never do. I’m thinking of my grandma now, who at 86, has a man named Harold (a few years her senior) who is madly in love with her. I saw it with my own eyes. They would marry if only she’d accept.

Harold had been living at her facility for a few years when she moved in. He has a military haircut I imagine he’s had for 50 years. He speaks concisely and says what he means. There is density to both his physique and his words but a subtle softness you pick up on behind it. Harold had been sitting at the same table in the cafeteria for years, often alone, seeming annoyed by even the thought of socializing and especially at watching others partake in it. Sometimes he looks like he wants to press mute or fast forward on the whole charade; a sentiment I’m familiar with. He eats and drinks the same thing at his meals every day in a very particular order–part of the routine involving peeling his fruit and sharing half of it with my grandma. The ending involves hot tea with a lemon at a very high temperature that if not fulfilled, as sometimes happens with new employees or forgetful old ones, gets sent back. He waits. Sometimes he scoffs, others he sits in silence. I ate with them a few times last summer and couldn’t help but think of Jack Nicholson ala As Good As It Gets, with a little less show but just as much intensity.

Harold would be the last guy you’d expect to get all doughy-eyed and follow a girl around like a love-sick puppy. And yet, here he is. Three years in to my grandma’s stay at The Atrium, Grand Junction’s finest assisted living home, and Harold has fallen over in love with her. I’d like to say I’m exaggerating for literary purpose but truly I am not. I saw it with my own eyes. It started as a joke in the family– OOooooh Grandma! Hanging out with Harold again?! Grandma has a boyfriend! Hehehehe! And then slowly it was revealed to all of us that for him it wasn’t some crush, he’d truly fallen for her. He switched tables to sit with her. Even thought that meant there’d be a certain amount of socializing. He comes over all the time to watch Westerns at her apartment. He on the couch, she on the recliner. Of course half the time they fall asleep 10 minutes in, but no matter. The man has it bad. And something about it completely excites and inspires me. It turned the tables on rules I had stupidly self-made on love and life and age. Very stupidly. I am constantly discovering how much I don’t know. But I love this story. I love that the employees there asked my grandma what she had done to Harold. What happened to the old crotchety man rolling his eyes in the corner? Now he was partaking in group activities? Calling her on the phone? Feeding the ducks? Switching tables?!! While my grandma tries to insist they’re only friends, (oh my God life never changes) and that she finished that phase of her life after my grandpa died, it’s clear she’s enjoying the time with him as she should.  Albeit rejecting his proposals and insisting he partake in more bridge games. I love it all. They’re is something truly hopeful in all of it. Anything that flips our predefined notions on their head can only be a good. It’s illuminating. I imagine it’s that way for Harold, too.

Harold, My Grandma, and her best friend Myrtle, playing cards on a wild Friday night last summer.

Harold, My Grandma, and her best friend Myrtle, playing cards on a wild Friday night last summer.

Maybe it’s different for her. She clearly likes him being her friend and enjoys the companionship. Perhaps in this last stage of their lives, my grandma’s old stoic German ways will prevail and she’ll reject the romantic advances and they truly will be just friends. At 90. And that’s fine too. Of course I’m secretly hoping that one day she’ll weaken, she’ll let him sneak a kiss. Maybe she already has. I don’t know. But watching this all unfold fills my heart up with something good. Something hopeful. My grandma’s advice to me has always been that boys like girls who are mean to them; that she hardly ever let a boy get too close or too much from her. To work on your own life and don’t design it around some boy. And I knew as a young woman she had a lot of interested suitors and broke her share of hearts. In fact she pushed her first boyfriend into a ditch when he tried to kiss her, which she said of course, only made him try harder. And that’s been her advice to me; to push the boys into the ditch and watch what happens. Honestly I take her advice to heart. I love listening to her old stories. Her simplicity about life. She is a very happy person who loves her life, and so for me her advice carries a lot of water. I know they don’t have the internet at the Atrium, but Grandma, if you’re reading, give Harold a kiss for me. (I mean you can’t push the man into the ditch–he’s 90!!) For whatever reason watching the two of you, and specifically him, has been a very good thing for me, and I’ll probably always carry it with me.

Health, Happiness, and Boys In the Ditch

Grandma Selfie Yeah!

Grandma Selfie Yeah!

The Plague.

I feel the need to begin here by expressing my deep gratitude for the response to my last post. As usual, my decision to publish a raw and somewhat sad update was not without hesitation on my part. My preference is always to write in a happy and funny and optimistic tone, even if the words I am writing are happier, funnier and more positive than I actually am. In some ways it’s therapeutic, and in others it’s a challenge in creativity and authenticity. As much as I’d like my writing to point towards the fun and the funny, life is not always that way, is it? Sometimes it’s overwhelming and can feel too heavy to bear. I resist putting words out there like that for maybe the same reason I never liked to cry in public or ask for help when I needed it. It means, gasp, I’m not perfect. And that’s what the ego fears a lot. 

Over these last few years, the pride that held tears back and forced a facade that was untrue began to crumble. This writing project entered the picture when those superficial layers were starting to shed, and consequently this blog has some really vulnerable things in it, which can leave me uneasy. At the same time, I can feel that my most honest posts are the ones that connect most with strangers. (Duh) And that doesn’t mean they have to be in the tone of “True Life: I’m Sick All the Time.” Humor can be just as much genuine and communal. It’s the one I prefer, it’s just not the one that always is.

Anyway, it’s a battle inwardly and materially, but I just really need to extend my thank you to everyone who received my words and reciprocated with such loving support and encouragement. How can we lose faith in humanity when across the world, people sit down at a desk to uplift and strengthen a stranger with words? It’s a two-way street yall! I’ve been reflecting on so many responses from people I will never know, and that alone is healing. On a form level, it makes me trust in the direction that the blog is taking–one I did not design. On the formless level, it had me feeling so much better despite being so sick. That transaction served such a greater purpose than “You should try eating more JuJu Beans!” And I attribute that to all of us. This doesn’t feel like a solitary project anymore. So thank you. That’s all I’m saying, THANK YA VERY MUCH.

Now, onto the plague. I’ve been puking my guts out. But that’s not the plague I’m talking about.

My siblings with their partners and children rented a beach house in the Florida Keys last week. It happened to be the same weekend as the wedding of a long-time good friend. For two months I went back and forth. Beach house or wedding weekend? (Assuming I could move) I could always go to the beach and fly home for Saturday night and make it to the wedding just in time for the festivities, right!? But with the way I’ve been feeling, my unsteady ability to sustain, my mom didn’t even have to tell me with her eyes this time. I knew I couldn’t do both. Or maybe I could, but the price would be big, and these days the price of choices like that are not just gargantuan but scarily long lasting. Crash days have turned into crash months, and the basic goal is, Don’t do things that could set you back so far. 

Back and forth I went, and it was tortuous. It always is; I do this all the time.  Both choices seemed correct and incorrect simultaneously. My indecisiveness is one of my largest sources of anxiety. I won’t get into the details of why one choice was better than another, there were many pros and cons to both. But often when it comes to my immediate family, they’re the default decision. I don’t get to see them a lot and they’re my lifesavers after all. They’re my blood bro! After my brother called me a few days before the trip, started describing the waves and the weather and a hammock outside, I booked the ticket and felt confident momentarily that now I didn’t have to suffer. The decision was made and now I could relax. I guess.

“Indecisive Girl” by Carli Ihde

…Until I saw my friend who’s wedding I would miss and then saw all my old friends who I rarely see that would be there. And all the shit they gave me, it was more torture. What have I done?! I blew it! At the same time the trip was booked- let it go. You get to hang with your family on the beach. That rocks. That’s true. I got to the beach. I held my nieces and laughed with family around the dinner table eating fish my brothers caught that day. And then on day 2, I awoke at 5 am and had that feeling in my gut that something wasn’t right. And then at 5:30 I started puking up all those “not rights” I was feeling.  I had caught the stomach bug that half of my family had experienced the week before. My sister was up with the baby conveniently and she held my hair and that was nice. An hour later with my face pressed against the cold tile in between cycles of puke bursts, I moaned and tossed: “Shoulda gone to the wedding. Shoulda gone to the wedding. BLLLLURGGGH”  (puke sound)

I’m still recovering from that evil stomach bug and it’s a bummer. But the bug isn’t the issue here and I know that. I’m the problem. Shit happens that you can’t foresee or plan for. Regret and hesitation are such hinderers of the present. And we all know that the present is where peace lies. Happy is in the here and now. A lot of my unhappiness, and perhaps unhappiness in general, is being here and wishing to be there. I could easily have gone to the wedding and convinced myself I was missing a beach trip of a lifetime. I could have tried to breakdance and broken my butt. (That almost happened once) So while I lie here sick on an air mattress, in the living room, on vacation, (once again) I’m trying simply to just be here. I’m looking for the lesson. I’m trying to focus and trust in the experience I’m having instead of the one I did not. Thoughts like that are like swimming up-current–they consume and exhaust me even more. It’s just another battle that’s no use fighting.

I don’t know how long I’ve been plagued with indecisiveness like this. Though I remember even in middle school spending far too long picking out deodorant at Target, never certain I would choose the right scent. It’s been a long time. As always the first step to breaking a habit is awareness–creating a space between the routine reaction and a healthier one. Maybe it starts with knowing myself more. Trusting myself more. But maybe it’s simpler than that. In stillness the answer points to this idea; be where you are. Wherever that is.

I be sick in Miami! And it’s fine! Whatever!

Here’s something Tolle says: If you resist what happens, you are at the mercy of what happens, and the world will determine your happiness and unhappiness. …To be in alignment with what is means to be in a relationship of inner nonresistance with what happens. It means not to label it mentally as good or bad, but to let it be.

Pretty good no? I’m marinading on that one. Ew, marinade. I’m still queazy.

Health, Happiness, Plagues.

Artwork: Indecisive Girl from Carli Ihde