getting older – Yellow Brick Missives

July 28, 2015

This is 30…er, 31. Almost.

I’m not gonna lie: 30 hasn’t exactly been easy. And even though I only have a few months until a 1 shoves that 0 aside, I’m not discounting the rest of this allegedly life-changing year.

This new decade feels nice. I have the emotional maturity to deal with life as it comes, with an experiential arsenal chock-full of missteps and tiny victories to help guide me along. With the last plumage of my twenties shaken off, I’m a fully fledged adult – feeling less like an impostor with every passing day.

The associated life knowledge that comes with it severely blunts my ability and desire to blame others or Society or Life for my problems. Because I know, in the big picture, whatever I’m challenged by is pretty minor stuff. I’ve overcome plenty, and I’m more than capable of handling the hard stuff.

Still, there’re also things that I crave with the same ferocious intensity I reserve for my first glass of coffee (yes, a glass – in the morning hours, a cup is a laughably paltry half-measure) – like seeing more of the world, buying a house, adopting another dog, having a kid; not a long list, really.

But sometimes those things become clouded by battling expectations of what I’m supposed to want or do during this transformative decade: traveling to every country imaginable, renouncing materialism, living in a yurt, and finding inner peace while buying a massive house with a matching mortgage, having two cars and two kids, and having matching IRAs. These contradictory ideals often come in rapid fire bursts – shouted through social media posts or those annoying Buzzfeed lists. I’m somehow supposed to become a hippie with a Lexus – a socially aware materialist. Maybe these polar opposites stem from the Millennial context – growing up and balancing a pre-tech, outdoor-fueled childhood with a post-pubescent, office-centric tech explosion. And like plenty of folks, I find myself caught in between.

Do I want to see more of the world? Most certainly – but not all of it; I still want there to be mysterious places “out there” where my imagination can wander. Do I want a massive house filled to brim with kids and cars and stuff? No. But I’d love a small, manageable house with another shelter dog, where we can bring up a human pup sometime down the line.

To accomplish these goals, though, we’ve both acknowledged that we first must develop greater senses of self, and take care of ourselves. The thing is, prior to this decade, I’d already passed through a lot of mental sieves – left unnecessary, emotion-laden clutter and baggage caught in the webbing, and let thought and ambition and optimism flow through. None of it was easy, and I still have a ways to go.

But as I near 31, I’m at the point of looking in and past the mirror and acknowledging that, yup, this is it. And I’m pretty damn happy with it.

So I need to treat myself accordingly, and embrace the all too infrequent senses of calm – of knowing that a decision or thought is true and right.

A few weeks back when Andy and I decided to move back to Raleigh in a year, I experienced one of those clarifying moments. All of the doubt and uncertainty I’d been feeling about making a home on this coast (the costs, the isolation, this and that and everything in between…) cleared. And I could see the future that we wanted. It’s still distant, but we’re inching closer to it every single day.

I’m not going to wax poetic and project ahead – assume that this year is going to be a revolutionary one.

To be certain, it’s going to be challenging. But every year, every decade is pocked with cake walks and welters of madness. So I’m not expecting 31 to be anything more than another year of me doing the best to live the life I want.

Because doing just that is interesting enough.

August 20, 2014

Neverland

Is this happiness?

Asking that age-old question is never easy — whether of yourself or others. Because it usually bubbles to your lips during a spat, over the course of draining a few vodka tonics, or after returning home at the end of a long, frustrating workday to a pile of Chihuahua shit.

But as most adults know, happiness isn’t some state of being. Not some odd plane of existence where the sun always shines and butterflies dance along the tops of lilies. Rather, it’s a nugget we unearth here and there as we excavate through a gray matrix of pestilence and anger and hard work that often compose our loud, loud lives.

It’s something to cherish and remark about, and enjoy in the moment — because it can be gone in an instant.

***

With another year inching closer, I’m incredibly frustrated — more so than I usually am around my birthday. There’s just something extra pulling me down, like a wool coat in a cold, icy pond that Macaulay Culkin pushed me into. But right when I feel like I’m dipping below the surface, one of those nuggets appears — a calming hand on my back, a wet dog nose against my cheek — and the all-consuming drag isn’t as severe; and I can breathe.

Less than a month from today, I leave my twenties behind. And all I can do is clap my hands and yell, “Good goddamned riddance!” Because the same idiots in high school who said “These are the best years of your life!” are of the same ilk as those who declared “Your twenties are your best years!”

Save the past few years, my twenties sucked. Mostly because they went a little something like this:

20: OMFG…IMSOOLD…OMGAHHHH…IHAVEACELLPHONE…IMOLDDDDDDDD.

21: I CAN DRINK! This is so cool! I just threw up. I’M GRADUATING SOON.

22-23: Grad school is hard. I can do it. I can’t do it. I hate it here.

24: So much for that Ph.D. This motel-hopping whilst writing my thesis and defending myself against angry Travelodge prostitutes is getting old.

25: FINALLY. Grad school is almost over. Oh hey, what’s that bump on my face? Cancerous lesion? Fab.

26: Seriously, these motel prostitutes are really irritating. The Great Recession? I’m sure it’ll blow over. Why am I so broke? Wait, is this my life now?

27: Goodbye motels, hello military installation? Never saw that coming. Time to move. I LOVE GETTING DRUNK ON PORCHES. Wow, my job sort of sucks. Time to move for me. Oh hey, other LGBT people! Cute guy! I HAVE A BOYFRIEND!

28: HE MOVED IN! IHATEMYJOBIHATEMYJOBIHATEMYJOB *Glitter bomb* Let’s get the fuck out of here. HE GOT THE JOB!

29: California is beautiful and weird and scary and fun. I GOT A JOB THAT ISN’T AWFUL. GERIATRIC PUPPIES! HUSBAND!

Okay, so 29 wasn’t horrible. It’s just been crazy-busy. And even though I feel old and curmudgeonly sometimes, I’m not going to fright away from a new decade. I’m welcoming all of it.

Because I really, really, REALLY need this to be a decade full of more good things than bad, more happiness than heartache. And I think it will be.

***

I think one of the main reasons why I’m so all over the place lately is that I feel close to a really important goal of mine — something I want to achieve by my big 3-0 — but am absolutely terrified that it’s not going to pan out.

That’s part of the whole life package though, right? Everything doesn’t always work out the way we want.

But I can try my damndest to make it happen, to make real my Neverland — where youthful dreams and fun and potential greatness remain alive and well.

So, while I may not be able to fly, I’ll keep flapping my arms mightily. Because, who knows, I may blow by Peter Pan and surprise myself.

After all, I’m no longer a Lost Boy.

April 9, 2014

Root (Re)Bound

Lately, life has been a little difficult.

But that’s to be expected. Work is tiring. Keeping the house in order is always an ongoing process, especially if you happen to be incredibly obsessive about how everything looks — not that I’d know. Toby keeps gaining chins at a rapid rate, despite our best efforts.

And self-imposed deadlines are creeping up (oh, haaay book-that-should-be-finished-but-isn’t).

Oh, [First World] life.

But every now and then, we get a little kick in the gut that reminds us to check in with ourselves. Make sure everything’s in order. That we’re doing just fine and not slowly retreating from the world and curling into a nice, tight ball of nerves.

Because when that happens, you need a little something called a Mental Health Day.

Now, I was no stranger to taking these at my last job. But given that my depleted work ethic has since rebounded, it’s hard for me to take some me time to decompress. Still, we all have days that start off like this:

(Yes, that mess Toby’s comforting, who’s sprawled across the bed, is yours truly).

So, for whatever reason, I often fill my mental health days with plant-related tasks.

Whether it’s staving-off an aphid infestation or re-potting plants, there’s something incredibly cathartic about giving a little boost to the quietly alive things making our apartment look that much better. Even if the process is messy. (Like one of my favorite bloggers describes.)

And for very obvious reasons, the whole process reminds me of growing up — my roots, and how and where I’ve come into my own.

As a very late bloomer, I didn’t really find my niche, nor my voice, until a lot later in life. And I didn’t really give myself many chances to thrive. Which is probably why I’d always gravitate toward the bedraggled looking plants in the nurseries. Sort of like how, back in college, I’d always “rescue” the beta fish that looked sickly or generally gross. I’d map my own history onto these struggling pieces of existence and hoped to see something in me reignite or take shape. But alas, usually these attempts ended with a toilet flush or a wilted mess.

Now, though, I’m pretty damn sure where I’m going and how to keep myself rooted — even when we keep on the move. And from that has come a new sense of self — of better understanding my own capabilities and my strengths, and how best to use those skills to nurture new life, new opportunities.

And an unexpected byproduct of all of this maturation has been an understanding of how to deal with the future — the unknowns, the certainties, the scary stuff none of us likes to think about. The warts and tears and politics of getting older, and watching our parents start that bizarrely alien, yet natural process of slowing down. And dealing with the outbursts and bruised feelings and hard decisions children have to make when they start assuming the roles of parents and parents start pedaling backward into childhood.

In many ways, we’re all seedlings trying to conquer a massive pot of soil — make it our own, dominate it.

But before we know it, we hit the outer edge.

And we have to break up our root-bound selves, replenish, and start growing again.

March 22, 2014

Sedentary Socialites or Again, Why Do We Have Two Bars In Our House?

The older we get, the harder we fall.

Wait, no.

The younger we are, the higher our bullshit threshold.

Almost.

The older we get, the harder it is to meet people and actually want to meet people and feel like you have the time to be social and host dinner parties and rationalize why you have two bars in your house.

There we go.

***

I like to think of myself as a social person. I’m southern, which means I can talk to anyone about anything for at least six minutes, and possibly longer — especially if we’re standing in a long checkout line at the grocery store. I quickly become completely fascinated by other people and their lives and what they do (unless they flay the skin off of things and wear their creep show creations as masks). Throw all of that innate interest into a blender with an anthropological background and, wabam, socialite central. Which is why I figured that we might as well outfit our apartment with two bars.

But these days I’m starting to put a little more stock in that saying I always heard about how hard it is to make friends as you get older. I mean, I guess I figured my drive to constantly connect with people would remain, well, constant. But I’ve just sort of slowed down. I mean, I know that that’s to be expected following a big move and new jobs and moving again and adopting a dog and doing every possible thing we’re warned against doing together together. Still, the past few months I’ve found myself super drained, and have felt like I’ve aged approximately 500 years.

So, is this the new normal? Is this what happens when I pack up one decade’s worth of experiences to drag behind me as I tip into the next? Or am I really 529 years old and am just now realizing it — like that dead teenager in American Horror Story?

Or maybe this is just evidence that I’m expecting way too much to happen in a relatively short amount of time. Being the insane control freak that I am, it’s typical that I want everything to be exactly the way it should be at exactly the right time, regardless of how much energy has to be front-loaded in the process. But I’m learning that it takes me a hell of a lot more time to bounce back from stuff than it used to. And that that’s okay.

Because we’re still working to make things happen, to cultivate friendships — and acknowledging that the good stuff takes time. Time that’s well worth it.

So I won’t completely re-purpose the bars quite yet. I’ll just keep dusting them off. Until the timing is just right.

July 8, 2013July 8, 2013

Aging Out

Fourth of July was winding down, and I was having a difficult time discerning between firework pops and pipe bomb explosions. Especially since I rate our neighborhood’s sketch factor based upon the number of times I’m accosted each day by meth addicts. Or followed by a deluded prophet claiming I’m the messiah.

Like the other day, when I became a contestant in Super Market Sweep: Dodge the Addict Edition.

Dear Combative Meth Addict:

If you get up in my face and demand money for the nonexistent baby (MethSandwich) your “mother” (the woman lighting up behind the bush) is caring for nearby, and then proceed to call me a “curly-haired freak” after I politely refrain, be glad that all I say in response is “Good luck with that.”

Whether it’s the thumpa thumpa pulse of Koreatown’s nightlife, or the prevalence of PBR-soaked handlebar mustaches, I’m finding myself opting for the Age Exit where bootcut jeans and fitted tees are still in vogue. Where I’m not the only one fighting the urge to channel my inner 95-year-old, throw my hands up like some Charlie Brown character, and yell at the slow-moving hipsters sporting cutoff Mom jean shorts to find the other half of your pants! Fashion faux pas aside, I know I can’t blame hipsters for everything–and not just because I’ve straddled the hipster line a time or two.

***

Lately, I’ve realized that my late twenty-something self can’t bounce back from a few drinks like before, and my body needs a little bit more time to recover from that partial cross-fit workout–the one that ended with me chugging orange juice to quell my ringing ears and shaky body from succumbing to a blood sugar crash. Eight years ago, I could’ve caught a few hours of shuteye in a friend’s tub before reaching up and turning on the shower, dusting off my clothes, re-wetting my contacts, and springing to my seminar on art since World War II. Not only that, but I also could’ve qualified to be a cast member on The Real World or Road Rules. But now, I’m the same age as that guitar-playing country guy who everyone thought was old.

That, and I’ve been dealt unintended reality checks. By fourth graders.

“Like the Nintendo 64?”

“Well, sort of. But older. You know, the original Nintendo. With cartridges this big.”

I’d expanded my hands about six inches apart. Incredulous, they’d cocked their heads in unison, as if they’d been watching a Pong game. (Yet another inapplicable analogy.)

“Why would they be that big?”

“Well, that’s what fit the machine. Okay, well, y’all know what a Sega is, right?”

More consternated looks had followed, as if I’d asked them to write a book report on that old classic Where the Red Fern Grows. But then, salvation–the hand-waving blond class runt.

“OH!”

Phew.

“My dad has one of those I think. It’s in a dusty box in the basement.”

“Alright. I think it’s time for y’all to move to the next station.”

Now, I know I’m not about to draw Social Security or anything. But there’re moments when we all realize that life isn’t stationary–that there will come a time when your jokes fall flat because the audience is too young to know why it was crucial to align yourself with either N-Sync or BSB (Backstreet Boys, duhuhhhh!). As infuriating as it can be, it’s interesting to acknowledge that I’m changing–that I’m cashing in all-nighters fueled by Red Bull and vodka for Melatonin and a few episodes of Murder, She Wrote. At 9:00.

Plus, with most of my twenties behind me, I’m starting to learn about all sorts of new things.

“You know, you really should get a colonoscopy.”

“Are you serious? Isn’t that for, uh, older…”

“Honey, just think about it. Especially at your age. And with our family history.”

I’m slowly making peace with my increasingly deep laugh lines, and tolerating the inset coffee stains on the backs of my teeth. But the unhealed shin scrapes still make me feel ancient, and remind me of my defunct circulatory system.

“Those still haven’t healed?”

“Babe, I heal like an eighty-five-year-old. On cumadin.”

But I’ve started to grow comfortable with the fact that peace and quiet and green space are more important factors in finding our new place than proximity to bars and clubs and ABC stores. That the din of nightlife can take a backseat to cricket chirps.

***

Sometimes, life gets incredibly loud. We let ourselves get lost in the cacophony, and ignore seemingly insignificant moments that, in hindsight, we grasp at for cherished remnants.

There’re plenty of reasons why we so easily dismiss a day here or there–chalk it up to a lack of coffee or bruised feelings–like there’s an infinite number to follow. But when we least expect it, we’re reminded in no uncertain, harsh terms that this is not the case–that we have to reconcile the good and the bad, and hug close any and all experiences. Because they make us who we are–they are our life’s manifold bookmarks, to which we turn on dark days to illuminate our minds and raise our spirits.

So the next time I have to skirt a group of tipsy hipsters hogging the sidewalk, I’ll bite my tongue. And smile, knowing that I’ve had those same good times, too. And will always welcome more.

Even if I experience them at a different pace.

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