It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood...
My husband and I live in a peaceful cul-de-sac on the south side of Fargo. It's a lovely neighborhood, where the houses aren't too big or too small, and the trees are tall enough to cast shade, but not old enough for the root structures to have cracked the sidewalks and damaged the foundations. It's quiet. People water their flowers as grills sizzle, dogs bark occasionally, and children ride their bikes up and down the street. We are just far enough removed from the nearest traffic arteries that the sound of rushing cars blends gently with the rustle of the leaves in the trees.
The other day I returned home to my quiet street to find a bright yellow note taped to the front of my garage. It read, is scrawling block letters, "If you continue to drive recklessly by speeding and driving the wrong way to enter your driveway, you will be reported to the police. There are many young kids in this neighborhood. Including a visually impaired, physically handi-capped little boy. If you have any questions, feel free to talk to ANY of the parents on the block." No signature. No phone number. Just a sarcastic "thanks" scratched across the bottom of the paper.
A beautiful day for a neighbor...
I was shocked. Thoughts tumbled through my mind, one after the other. Who wrote this? Some lady? Reckless driving? Police? Huh? Handicapped kid- how am I supposed to know there's a handicapped kid wandering around? Entering my driveway wrong- what does that even mean?
I ripped down the note, taking a huge chunk of paint off with it. I glanced up and down the deserted street before hurrying inside, where I sat steaming over the nasty note. Reckless driving, really? Admittedly, I did rather zoom out of the driveway earlier in the day, but I don't think a loud engine equates to reckless driving, and there's no way I could have even broke 30 mph before reaching the stop sign at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, and I know I was in a hurry, but was I really going that fast? I smirked at the "reminder" that there are many young kids in the neighborhood. Yeah, there are. A LOT. We've lived here for six years, and have watched as houses have been bought and sold up and down the street. There's always been one or two families with younger children, but never as many as there are this summer. It's like they cropped up out of the ground and multiplied like the rabbits under my deck. These kids are everywhere. Selling lemonade, building cardboard armor in the yard, chasing dogs, zooming around on scooters and bikes. Trust me, I am well-aware of their presence. But a handicapped child? This I was NOT aware of. But how the hell am I supposed to know there's a special needs child living on the block? Does he carry a sign that says, "Watch out! I'm visually impaired!" I'm guessing not. My blood boiled as I imagined a neighbor "concerned" enough to leave this nasty note, but not so much that they would have taken the time to come over and give me a heads-up that their child is challenged and may not have the faculties to get out of the street when there is a car coming.
I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you...
I taped the note up in the middle of my picture window, hoping that the neighbors could all see it displayed in silent defiance of their request. I imagined them all outside, pointing at it and gossiping about the crazy lady who tries to run down their kids in the street. It stayed there until my husband came home and removed it, rolling his eyes and telling me to get a grip.
Entering my driveway the "wrong way"? Wtf. Pretty sure I've pulled into and out of my driveway the same exact way every day for six years. If I've been doing it incorrectly, this is the first I've heard of such a thing. By all means, let's see the "proper way" to pull into a driveway. Is she referring to the rare occasion on which we back one of our vehicles into the driveway instead of pulling in headlights first? Because I'm pretty sure that's not against the law. And if she's under the impression that the cul-de-sac is some kind of one way...uh, there's no ONE WAY sign. I've never heard of a situation in which you would assume that a street is a ONE WAY. I would assume that a street is a regular two-way unless otherwise posted.
In regards to the special needs child whose safety I may have put in jeopardy ..I think it's reasonable to say that I would have no way of knowing that a child is visually impaired unless someone tells me. It would have been nice to have been informed by a neighbor face-to-face instead of via anonymous threat.
It's a neighborly day in this beautywood, a neighborly day for a beauty...
My husband and I live at the keeps-to-themselves end of the cul-de-sac. There are five or six houses in a row that contain couples and singles with no children. We don't have gatherings in the driveway, or mingle with the large families on the street. We don't have kids for their kids to play with, we don't have dogs to walk, and have never popped over with a casserole or asked to borrow a cup of sugar. I certainly don't mind. When I was growing up, we lived on a corner with no other houses across the street or behind us. In fact, we had only a single house adjacent to ours, and my mother grew the hedge six feet tall. Not because she hated the neighbors, she simply valued privacy in our yard. If my neighbors want to have yard parties and bonfires, great. It adds to the general ambiance of the neighborhood, and I enjoy giving and receiving a friendly wave as I cruise by. I've never once felt a pang at not being invited to a neighborhood gathering, but the passive-aggressive hostility displayed by whomever left that note is a different beast altogether.
This situation has weighed heavily on my mind ever since I peeled that note off my door. I've toyed with the notion of formulating a response letter to the anonymous author, and leaving a copy in the mailbox of each and every house on my street. You throw a rock at my house, I throw one at yours, right? However. I don't want someone else coming home to a letter of questionable intent taped on their door like an eviction notice. I don't want anyone else feeling as confused and unwelcome in their own neighborhood as I did that day. Besides, I'm too smart for that. I realize that if we keep throwing rocks, something is going to get broken, and the peaceful tranquility of the street will be gone forever. Instead, I'm posting my response here, in hopes that with enough sharing, my thoughts and words will eventually reach her ears.
Dear Neighbor,
I want to apologize for startling you the other day. I pulled out of my driveway pretty fast, and it may have appeared that it was without consideration to any children who may be playing nearby. Not having any children of my own, it's easy to forget that other peoples' may be underfoot. There are more children living on the street than ever before, and I admit that I'm not always as careful as I could be. I realize that your note was written out of fear for the safety of your children, so I can easily forgive the tone. In the future, please feel free to stop by with any concerns you my have regarding this subject. My husband and I are reasonable people, who very much enjoy living on this quiet Fargo street. We have no wish to cause harm or discord in any way. If we've done anything in the past to make ourselves seem unapproachable, I assure you that it was not intentional. If we aren't home, and you choose to leave another note, please include your name and number so we can chat. :)
Yours sincerely,
Gina & Pete Bushey
So let’s make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we’re together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine? Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Out With the Old!
I've heard the phrase "de-cluttering is good for the soul". I don't know where I heard it, but it is absolutely true. I have discovered that there is something extremely satisfying about parting with things. It's like the items were literally weighing me down, and every time another box of stuff goes out the door, I feel a little bit lighter. Over the past couple of years, I have been slowly de-cluttering, both my house and my life. It kind of kicked into high gear when I started watching Hoarders. A more terrifying show, I have never seen. In case you aren't familiar with the program, it focuses on individuals who suffer from an emotional disorder in which they are compelled to acquire and store items of little or no value. It always starts innocent enough, with a small stamp collection or something, and then (usually after some kind of traumatic life event), BOOM! It's floor-to-ceiling pillars of crap in every room, the toilet's busted, there's feces everywhere, and you're sleeping on a mountain of roach-infested garbage.
I don't want to sleep on garbage.
One day, shortly after having moved into our first home, my mother showed up at my door with a pile of boxes from my childhood and said, "Now that you have a house of your own, it's time to get all your stuff out of mine." I took all the boxes to the spare bedroom in my basement, stacked them, and shut the door. Three years later, I opened that door and found that they had multiplied into my very own personal hoard. Ack! What do I do? I don't want to be one of those people! There has GOT to be some stuff in here that I can part with! Of course the first things to go belonged to my husband. (Turns out it was much easier to give away things from his childhood than my own.) My husband is a paper hoarder. He had an entire file cabinet stuffed with pay-stubs, bank statements, and random legal documents from as far back as 1995. Hundreds of statements from accounts that no longer exist, rental agreements from old apartments,old parking tickets, and documents relating to jobs he had in high school. I purchased a shredder.
Not surprisingly, my husband freaked out. He'd spent a lifetime accumulating this bizarre paper stash, and was none too keen on my idea to simply destroy it. However, the little tiff we had over the paper hoard was nothing compared to the battle that ensued when I tried to put his old He-Man guys on Ebay, so I took a deep breath, and turned my attention to my own pile of boxes. After all, I had a lot more stuff than my husband did, so if I was going to be fair, a lot more of my own things would have to hit the curb than his. Time to quit harping on my spouse, and own up to the fact that it was mostly my things that were the problem at hand.
Over the next year, I slowly sifted through the mountain. I went through box after box of my childhood things. I found items that I didn't even recognize. That made them easy to part with. If I couldn't remember why I had saved a particular item, it went into the Give-Away pile. Things that had no sentimental value but possibly some cash value went into the Ebay pile, and of course quite a few things made their way into the Garbage pile. I'd saved newspaper clippings, sheet music, programs from sports events, and posters from all my theatrical productions in high school. I had trophies and stuffed animals, photographs and souvenirs of every size and shape. All my ceramic kitty cats went into the Give-Away pile, and a few of my childhood toys went up on Ebay. I threw out broken items that I finally admitted I would never fix, expired cosmetics, old glassware, random books I'd never again read, and I games I'd never again play. All the VHS and cassette tapes went into the Give-Away pile (save home movies and a couple of mix tapes made for me by friends), along with coats and shoes and "skinny clothes" which, even if they fit, would be out of style anyway. One day, I looked around and was surprised to see that the number of boxes in my hoard had dwindled to a manageable number. Most of what remained were photo albums, a few keepsakes, and important documents. The slow process of shredding the hundreds of ancient papers in my husband's broken file cabinet was complete, and all that remained were certification documents and tax forms. In a great show of support, he even let me throw out three years' worth of old Sports Illustrated magazines that he'd been keeping in a dresser drawer. My once terrifying Hoard Room now contained a guest bed, some actual furniture. Where there was once twenty sagging cardboard boxes, there were now just a handful of plastic storage bins, all neatly stacked and labeled. I had done it.
It's not the cleanest of rooms, by any means, but you can see the carpet, and at last it's more of a guest room than a dirty little secret. It still contains things that I could probably do away with, but I'm so proud of myself for the progress that I've made. Sometimes I go into that room and just look around and congratulate myself on coming this far. As a person who sees value in old things, it's been a bit of a challenge to part with aged items. However, I have learned that just because I've had something forever doesn't mean that I have to keep it. And it's ok to give things away, because if I saw the value in an item, someone else will, too. I've made a game of selling things on Ebay and craigslist. I'm not getting rich by any means, but it makes me happy to put something that was once important to me into the hands of a person who appreciates it, and making a couple dollars while I'm at it is icing on the cake. Truth be told, I've already started collecting new items for the house, reinvesting the dollars I've made selling my old items into new collectibles, but it's helped make my home my own. I've turned a bunch of My Little Ponys that spent twenty years in a box into an antique trunk and an old radio to decorate my bedroom. I put my old toys into the safekeeping of a person who will appreciate them. At the same time, I've added to the beauty of my home with things that make me smile, and isn't that the point? As the weight of the past slowly trickles out the door, I have room for a new and exciting future.
And just in time for garage-sale season. ;)
I don't want to sleep on garbage.
One day, shortly after having moved into our first home, my mother showed up at my door with a pile of boxes from my childhood and said, "Now that you have a house of your own, it's time to get all your stuff out of mine." I took all the boxes to the spare bedroom in my basement, stacked them, and shut the door. Three years later, I opened that door and found that they had multiplied into my very own personal hoard. Ack! What do I do? I don't want to be one of those people! There has GOT to be some stuff in here that I can part with! Of course the first things to go belonged to my husband. (Turns out it was much easier to give away things from his childhood than my own.) My husband is a paper hoarder. He had an entire file cabinet stuffed with pay-stubs, bank statements, and random legal documents from as far back as 1995. Hundreds of statements from accounts that no longer exist, rental agreements from old apartments,old parking tickets, and documents relating to jobs he had in high school. I purchased a shredder.
Not surprisingly, my husband freaked out. He'd spent a lifetime accumulating this bizarre paper stash, and was none too keen on my idea to simply destroy it. However, the little tiff we had over the paper hoard was nothing compared to the battle that ensued when I tried to put his old He-Man guys on Ebay, so I took a deep breath, and turned my attention to my own pile of boxes. After all, I had a lot more stuff than my husband did, so if I was going to be fair, a lot more of my own things would have to hit the curb than his. Time to quit harping on my spouse, and own up to the fact that it was mostly my things that were the problem at hand.
Over the next year, I slowly sifted through the mountain. I went through box after box of my childhood things. I found items that I didn't even recognize. That made them easy to part with. If I couldn't remember why I had saved a particular item, it went into the Give-Away pile. Things that had no sentimental value but possibly some cash value went into the Ebay pile, and of course quite a few things made their way into the Garbage pile. I'd saved newspaper clippings, sheet music, programs from sports events, and posters from all my theatrical productions in high school. I had trophies and stuffed animals, photographs and souvenirs of every size and shape. All my ceramic kitty cats went into the Give-Away pile, and a few of my childhood toys went up on Ebay. I threw out broken items that I finally admitted I would never fix, expired cosmetics, old glassware, random books I'd never again read, and I games I'd never again play. All the VHS and cassette tapes went into the Give-Away pile (save home movies and a couple of mix tapes made for me by friends), along with coats and shoes and "skinny clothes" which, even if they fit, would be out of style anyway. One day, I looked around and was surprised to see that the number of boxes in my hoard had dwindled to a manageable number. Most of what remained were photo albums, a few keepsakes, and important documents. The slow process of shredding the hundreds of ancient papers in my husband's broken file cabinet was complete, and all that remained were certification documents and tax forms. In a great show of support, he even let me throw out three years' worth of old Sports Illustrated magazines that he'd been keeping in a dresser drawer. My once terrifying Hoard Room now contained a guest bed, some actual furniture. Where there was once twenty sagging cardboard boxes, there were now just a handful of plastic storage bins, all neatly stacked and labeled. I had done it.
It's not the cleanest of rooms, by any means, but you can see the carpet, and at last it's more of a guest room than a dirty little secret. It still contains things that I could probably do away with, but I'm so proud of myself for the progress that I've made. Sometimes I go into that room and just look around and congratulate myself on coming this far. As a person who sees value in old things, it's been a bit of a challenge to part with aged items. However, I have learned that just because I've had something forever doesn't mean that I have to keep it. And it's ok to give things away, because if I saw the value in an item, someone else will, too. I've made a game of selling things on Ebay and craigslist. I'm not getting rich by any means, but it makes me happy to put something that was once important to me into the hands of a person who appreciates it, and making a couple dollars while I'm at it is icing on the cake. Truth be told, I've already started collecting new items for the house, reinvesting the dollars I've made selling my old items into new collectibles, but it's helped make my home my own. I've turned a bunch of My Little Ponys that spent twenty years in a box into an antique trunk and an old radio to decorate my bedroom. I put my old toys into the safekeeping of a person who will appreciate them. At the same time, I've added to the beauty of my home with things that make me smile, and isn't that the point? As the weight of the past slowly trickles out the door, I have room for a new and exciting future.
And just in time for garage-sale season. ;)
Monday, May 13, 2013
The First Day of the Rest of My Life
Most people hate Mondays. We dread them all weekend, we wake up groaning about them, and we grumble about them on Facebook all day long, seeking company in our misery from others who share our pain.
When I worked a regular 8-5:00 job, Monday through Friday, I hated Mondays too. Why? Because Monday signifies the point in the week at which you have the most remaining work hours until your next day off. It sucks knowing that there are now forty hours of productivity (or misery, whatever) between you and that Friday evening happy hour. However, when I chose to abandon the 8-5:00 lifestyle, Mondays took on a new meaning for me. The night-job life means that I work nights and weekends. I am routinely scheduled Friday nights, therefore Friday is really nothing to look forward to. If I'm not battling through my week just to get to Friday, my reasons for hating Monday simply melt away.
For me, Monday mornings are mostly calm. Quiet. After a long weekend of work, dealing with drunken customers, shouting over loud music, and trying to fit in all those things that I didn't manage to get accomplished during the week, Mondays are my breath of fresh air. To me, every Monday is a chance to start over. The perpetual Day 1.
Day 1 of the Diet: Struggling with health and weight is a constant for most people, and like most people, I want to look and feel my best while simultaneously (constantly) indulging myself in excessive food, beverage, and naps. Obviously, this does not work. And after a weekend of enjoying myself, Monday is always the day I mentally motivate myself to get back on track. Because Monday is the day with the most remaining days between me and the weekend, it represents a fresh start, and blank page. I can make this Monday the start of a healthier me.
Day 1 of the Exercise Plan: I'm no marathon-runner, but as a woman approaching middle age, I am well aware that my metabolism won't last forever, and it's important to include physical activity in my life. Every exercise program from Sweatin' to the Oldies to p90x has a Day 1.Why not make it today? Fifteen minutes on the elliptical in the morning, one hour of pole fitness in the evening, and a reasonably healthy menu in between. Boom.
Day 1 of the Housewife "Home" Tasks: Desperate housewives of the world! I have six guests coming to stay with me Friday night, and in order to make sure that they don't witness any embarrassing filth, I have *cough* a few chores that need to be taken care of before Friday. Picking up all the clutter, making sure the pillows are fluffed and the beds are clean-sheeted, stocking the fridge, etc. Since it's Monday, I have the maximum number of hours remaining in which to complete those tasks. (Cue the sound of a whip cracking. *whoop-pISH!!*)
Day 1 of the Housewife "Other" Tasks: I have bills to pay, mail to sort, stuff to drop off, packages to ship, Grandmas to visit, gifts to purchase, and household supplies to re-stock. And Lord knows those groceries won't shop for themselves. Luckily, it's Monday, so I have lots of time to squeeze my errands in before Friday, and get them all done without causing myself a panic attack.
Day 1 of Soul Improvement: Arguably the most important of all the Day 1's, this Monday is a chance for me to improve mySELF. Smile at more people instead of giving blank stares, or let an extra car into my lane. I should take a few minutes of my drive between jobs and call a friend just to say hi. Try to keep bitterness and venom out of my head and heart, and remember not to let something small ruin my day. Learn to let something small make my day instead.
A cup of coffee on Monday morning is possibly my favorite time of the week. In the world of the "Day Job" people, 10AM on a Monday might be the worst moment of the week. It's just about time for that fifteen-minute mid-morning break, in which (if you're lucky) you'll be able to run to the bathroom and hit the vending machine. Maaaaaybe check Facebook, but only if you do it on the toilet. (Multi-tasking is key.) Right now, my week seems endless, in a good way. I'm looking around at my messy house, knowing it has to be cleaned, and checking the clock because I know I have places to be, but hey. There's plenty of time to accomplish my weekly goals, because it's only Monday. It's literally the first day of the rest of my life.
And with a small, determined grin, she chugs the rest of her coffee, closes the laptop, and thinks to herself, "Go get 'em, Tiger."
When I worked a regular 8-5:00 job, Monday through Friday, I hated Mondays too. Why? Because Monday signifies the point in the week at which you have the most remaining work hours until your next day off. It sucks knowing that there are now forty hours of productivity (or misery, whatever) between you and that Friday evening happy hour. However, when I chose to abandon the 8-5:00 lifestyle, Mondays took on a new meaning for me. The night-job life means that I work nights and weekends. I am routinely scheduled Friday nights, therefore Friday is really nothing to look forward to. If I'm not battling through my week just to get to Friday, my reasons for hating Monday simply melt away.
For me, Monday mornings are mostly calm. Quiet. After a long weekend of work, dealing with drunken customers, shouting over loud music, and trying to fit in all those things that I didn't manage to get accomplished during the week, Mondays are my breath of fresh air. To me, every Monday is a chance to start over. The perpetual Day 1.
Day 1 of the Diet: Struggling with health and weight is a constant for most people, and like most people, I want to look and feel my best while simultaneously (constantly) indulging myself in excessive food, beverage, and naps. Obviously, this does not work. And after a weekend of enjoying myself, Monday is always the day I mentally motivate myself to get back on track. Because Monday is the day with the most remaining days between me and the weekend, it represents a fresh start, and blank page. I can make this Monday the start of a healthier me.
Day 1 of the Exercise Plan: I'm no marathon-runner, but as a woman approaching middle age, I am well aware that my metabolism won't last forever, and it's important to include physical activity in my life. Every exercise program from Sweatin' to the Oldies to p90x has a Day 1.Why not make it today? Fifteen minutes on the elliptical in the morning, one hour of pole fitness in the evening, and a reasonably healthy menu in between. Boom.
Day 1 of the Housewife "Home" Tasks: Desperate housewives of the world! I have six guests coming to stay with me Friday night, and in order to make sure that they don't witness any embarrassing filth, I have *cough* a few chores that need to be taken care of before Friday. Picking up all the clutter, making sure the pillows are fluffed and the beds are clean-sheeted, stocking the fridge, etc. Since it's Monday, I have the maximum number of hours remaining in which to complete those tasks. (Cue the sound of a whip cracking. *whoop-pISH!!*)
Day 1 of the Housewife "Other" Tasks: I have bills to pay, mail to sort, stuff to drop off, packages to ship, Grandmas to visit, gifts to purchase, and household supplies to re-stock. And Lord knows those groceries won't shop for themselves. Luckily, it's Monday, so I have lots of time to squeeze my errands in before Friday, and get them all done without causing myself a panic attack.
Day 1 of Soul Improvement: Arguably the most important of all the Day 1's, this Monday is a chance for me to improve mySELF. Smile at more people instead of giving blank stares, or let an extra car into my lane. I should take a few minutes of my drive between jobs and call a friend just to say hi. Try to keep bitterness and venom out of my head and heart, and remember not to let something small ruin my day. Learn to let something small make my day instead.
A cup of coffee on Monday morning is possibly my favorite time of the week. In the world of the "Day Job" people, 10AM on a Monday might be the worst moment of the week. It's just about time for that fifteen-minute mid-morning break, in which (if you're lucky) you'll be able to run to the bathroom and hit the vending machine. Maaaaaybe check Facebook, but only if you do it on the toilet. (Multi-tasking is key.) Right now, my week seems endless, in a good way. I'm looking around at my messy house, knowing it has to be cleaned, and checking the clock because I know I have places to be, but hey. There's plenty of time to accomplish my weekly goals, because it's only Monday. It's literally the first day of the rest of my life.
And with a small, determined grin, she chugs the rest of her coffee, closes the laptop, and thinks to herself, "Go get 'em, Tiger."
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Mid-30's Spring Break: The New Awesome.
I walked up to the check-out at Express and plopped my purchases onto the counter. "Did you find everything alright?" The perky co-ed gave me a smile as she started ringing up my items. Suddenly a sea foam green tank top with a black sequined palm tree stitched to the front caught her eye. "Omygod, this is SO. Cute!" she gushed excitedly, "Are you going on spring break?!" I paused a beat as I tried to figure out if she was mocking my purchase. After all, what thirty-something (practically ancient in the eyes of anyone under twenty-five) would buy something so ridiculous in February? (Or ever?) In a split second, I decided she was genuinely, adorably clueless and responded with a cheerful grin, "Why yes. Yes, I am."
Spring Break. I never had one. My parents got their education the hard way. They WORKED, and they paid for it. As a result, I was entirely responsible for my own room and board, as well as my own college tuition. The closest I ever came to a spring break was when a bunch of friends and I road-tripped to Winnipeg one dreary March. None of us had any money (or any parents with money willing to foot the bill for a frivolous vacation that would no-doubt result in a Girls Gone Wild cameo that would inevitably ruin our chances at political office), so while the greeks and the rich kids flocked south of the border, my economically-challenged friends and I headed defiantly north. It was a great time. We stayed at a Ramada because, as an employee of the Ramada in Fargo, one of my friends got super-cheap rooms. We carpooled. We bought off-sale, cleaned out every ice machine in the entire hotel, and got drunk in our rooms to save money. We paraded down the street to a dirty strip club, and one of my friends purchased a fist full of bargain weed from some weirdo outside the mall. (YIKES.) Instead of buying souvenirs, I stole sticky shot glasses from the Tijuana Yacht Club. We passed out at the hotel in random heaps, wearing mini-skirts, Hawaiian shirts and smiles. I loved nearly every minute of that trip, but it still wasn't the same as a real Spring Break.
This year, my friends and I decided it was high time we take a tropical vacation together. Sun, sand, friends, and liquor. What could be better? It was long overdue! (Right?) However, due to costs involved, we ended up changing our original plans to chill at a Jamaican resort, to renting a house in Key West. Spend a night or two in Miami, Key Largo, and then head to Key West (in wicked rental mini-vans), where the booze is plentiful, there's a beach on every corner, and Cuba is closer than the nearest Walmart. (True story.) The house was GORGEOUS. Private pool, beach across the street, and the Southernmost Point of the United States was literally 200 yards away.
We had an amazing time. We drank. We danced. We saw strippers and sang karaoke. We took cheesy visitors' tours and bought tacky souvenir photos. I've got a million new memories and funny stories. We saw crocodiles, the world's largest lobster statue, haunted liquor establishments, and P. Diddy's Miami home. But do you know what the funny part is? It was unseasonably cold, and rained almost the entire time we were there, but it didn't matter. After all of these years it wasn't the "tropical location" that finally made our "Spring Break" a reality, it was each other. I've had the amazing good fortune to have found a group of friends that, even though most of us met by accident, has been able to stick together throughout the years. Although separated by distance, there is something about our relationships that time and distance doesn't change. And even though Key West was historical and beautiful, and Miami was all sexy and happening, that stuff was a mere background to the real action. My favorite memories of this "grown-up Spring Break" are singing karaoke in a tiny little Key West bar with barely any customers. We drank and danced, choked down jell-o shots, and sang the same songs we've been singing to each other for a decade. In Key Largo, we played drinking games and listed to early 2000's hip-hop at top volume until security banged on the door and threatened to kick us out. We hugged, we talked, we took silly pictures, and we walked arm-in-arm down Ocean Drive in South Beach like it was Broadway in Fargo, 2003. The honest truth is, I think that my friends and I could have taken a Spring Break anywhere and made it just as amazing as we did in Florida. We make our own fun, and that fun is about being together, not being somewhere. The setting is just the icing on the cake. The real treasure in this trip has been reconnecting with friends and realizing that while time irrevocably passes, some things truly never change. Those interpersonal connections are what keep us grounded, and what keep us young. Despite the demands of career, family, and society, I don't know if my friends and I will ever truly act our ages. Lol, I don't even know if it's possible. Whenever we set eyes on each other, it's like a time warp. Our hearts come alive with that carefree spirit we possessed in our youth, when all we needed to do was get home safely and pay rent on time. It's the indescribable feeling that you can only explain in hindsight. When I was 22, I thought I was an adult, but somehow felt like I'd be young forever. The world was my oyster and nothing was impossible. It's the kind of thing you can only appreciate looking backward. However, with age has come the wisdom and perspective to know that every day is a gift, and not one moment is to be wasted or taken for granted. And perhaps that is why now, more than ever, my friends and I can suck down a jell-o shot, grab that karaoke mic, link arms and sing our hearts out with a gusto like we never have before.
Spring Break. I never had one. My parents got their education the hard way. They WORKED, and they paid for it. As a result, I was entirely responsible for my own room and board, as well as my own college tuition. The closest I ever came to a spring break was when a bunch of friends and I road-tripped to Winnipeg one dreary March. None of us had any money (or any parents with money willing to foot the bill for a frivolous vacation that would no-doubt result in a Girls Gone Wild cameo that would inevitably ruin our chances at political office), so while the greeks and the rich kids flocked south of the border, my economically-challenged friends and I headed defiantly north. It was a great time. We stayed at a Ramada because, as an employee of the Ramada in Fargo, one of my friends got super-cheap rooms. We carpooled. We bought off-sale, cleaned out every ice machine in the entire hotel, and got drunk in our rooms to save money. We paraded down the street to a dirty strip club, and one of my friends purchased a fist full of bargain weed from some weirdo outside the mall. (YIKES.) Instead of buying souvenirs, I stole sticky shot glasses from the Tijuana Yacht Club. We passed out at the hotel in random heaps, wearing mini-skirts, Hawaiian shirts and smiles. I loved nearly every minute of that trip, but it still wasn't the same as a real Spring Break.
This year, my friends and I decided it was high time we take a tropical vacation together. Sun, sand, friends, and liquor. What could be better? It was long overdue! (Right?) However, due to costs involved, we ended up changing our original plans to chill at a Jamaican resort, to renting a house in Key West. Spend a night or two in Miami, Key Largo, and then head to Key West (in wicked rental mini-vans), where the booze is plentiful, there's a beach on every corner, and Cuba is closer than the nearest Walmart. (True story.) The house was GORGEOUS. Private pool, beach across the street, and the Southernmost Point of the United States was literally 200 yards away.
We had an amazing time. We drank. We danced. We saw strippers and sang karaoke. We took cheesy visitors' tours and bought tacky souvenir photos. I've got a million new memories and funny stories. We saw crocodiles, the world's largest lobster statue, haunted liquor establishments, and P. Diddy's Miami home. But do you know what the funny part is? It was unseasonably cold, and rained almost the entire time we were there, but it didn't matter. After all of these years it wasn't the "tropical location" that finally made our "Spring Break" a reality, it was each other. I've had the amazing good fortune to have found a group of friends that, even though most of us met by accident, has been able to stick together throughout the years. Although separated by distance, there is something about our relationships that time and distance doesn't change. And even though Key West was historical and beautiful, and Miami was all sexy and happening, that stuff was a mere background to the real action. My favorite memories of this "grown-up Spring Break" are singing karaoke in a tiny little Key West bar with barely any customers. We drank and danced, choked down jell-o shots, and sang the same songs we've been singing to each other for a decade. In Key Largo, we played drinking games and listed to early 2000's hip-hop at top volume until security banged on the door and threatened to kick us out. We hugged, we talked, we took silly pictures, and we walked arm-in-arm down Ocean Drive in South Beach like it was Broadway in Fargo, 2003. The honest truth is, I think that my friends and I could have taken a Spring Break anywhere and made it just as amazing as we did in Florida. We make our own fun, and that fun is about being together, not being somewhere. The setting is just the icing on the cake. The real treasure in this trip has been reconnecting with friends and realizing that while time irrevocably passes, some things truly never change. Those interpersonal connections are what keep us grounded, and what keep us young. Despite the demands of career, family, and society, I don't know if my friends and I will ever truly act our ages. Lol, I don't even know if it's possible. Whenever we set eyes on each other, it's like a time warp. Our hearts come alive with that carefree spirit we possessed in our youth, when all we needed to do was get home safely and pay rent on time. It's the indescribable feeling that you can only explain in hindsight. When I was 22, I thought I was an adult, but somehow felt like I'd be young forever. The world was my oyster and nothing was impossible. It's the kind of thing you can only appreciate looking backward. However, with age has come the wisdom and perspective to know that every day is a gift, and not one moment is to be wasted or taken for granted. And perhaps that is why now, more than ever, my friends and I can suck down a jell-o shot, grab that karaoke mic, link arms and sing our hearts out with a gusto like we never have before.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
BRRR!!! I can't feel my face...
I realize I am stating the obvious here, but it is COLD OUTSIDE!!! And it's not just cold. It's true North Dakota freeze-your-ass-off cold. It's spit-into-the-wind-and-your-own-saliva-marble-nails-you-in-the-middle-of-the-forehead cold. And I realize that although it's (come on) not that big of a deal, (I mean really, all you have to do is make it from your car to the building and vice verse), but still. When you round the corner and a blast of icy wind slices through every layer of clothing like a knife, and your vision goes blurry for a second because your eyeballs have momentarily frosted over, it seems like a big deal.
The weather around here is a constant source of entertainment, hassle, and never-ending conversation. It amazes me that people live here! And at the same time, aren't we all just a little bit proud of it? "Keeps the riff-raff out," that's what we always say. You think some SoCal-born wimp could put up with this nonsense? No way. North Dakotans are bred to tough out the winters here. It's literally in our blood. Short history lesson: A long time ago (in a land far away), the Russian monarchy, looking to settle some of their underpopulated land, advertised throughout the rest of Europe that people could move to Russia to live on and farm the land for free, in exchange for a percentage of their crop. A large number of Germans took them up on the offer and immigrated to Russia. After a few generations, Russia started to suck, so the Germans picked up and moved to the brand new United States of America. Guess where a large number of them settled? The upper mid-west. Guess why? Because it reminded them of home. Cold, crappy, treeless, flat-ass Russia. They knew how to survive and farm land in a hostile climate, and no one else wanted to live here, so BOOM. Home sweet home.
I think it's amusing that "weather" is sort of like, the quintessential world's-most-boring conversation topic. Only around here, it's not. When someone bursts through the front door, and says, "Man, it's cold out there!" It isn't just chilly. It means that exposed skin literally freezes in four and a half minutes. We live in a region where people still freeze to death annually. Freeze. To DEATH. Human popsicles. Unreal. Not only that, but weather is something that every single person around here has in common. It doesn't matter the color of your skin, your political opinions, or your tax bracket. Rich or poor, every last one of us fights the same battle five months a year. Icy roads don't care how nice your car is. That snow in your driveway doesn't give a crap how important your job is. Waitress or CEO, we all have to conquer the same mountains of frozen crunchy white stuff in our attempts to drive to work, and every single one of us will have disgusting snot-cicles when we get there. North Dakota winters are the universal f*cking equalizer.
And speaking of snow, does anyone else dislike it as much as I do? Pretty or not, I resent the fact that every winter, the sky dumps buckets and buckets of frozen water on our houses and streets. We spend millions of dollars on equipment to move it, shove it, pile it, stack it, get it OUT of the frickin' way so we can go about our daily business, and then, poof! It simply melts into nothingness. All that snow vanishes without a trace, making a mockery of the time and money we've spent dealing with it, yet again. I picture that little clay-mation character Jack Frost, laughing maniacally as he zips off to his vacation home in the Caribbean, where he'll sit sipping umbrella drinks all summer long until his calendar says it's time to go back to Fargo.
All that being said, I like living in North Dakota. Snow, schmo. If I lived in California, I'd be dealing with little earthquakes cracking the plaster up and down my walls. In Florida, there could be a giant mutant lizard lurking in my backyard, waiting to eat my dog. Whatever. It's stupid cold outside, and I felt like a short, winter-inspired rant. I know every single person who reads this probably can't feel their toes right now, so I think you'll all catch my drift. (No pun intended.)
The weather around here is a constant source of entertainment, hassle, and never-ending conversation. It amazes me that people live here! And at the same time, aren't we all just a little bit proud of it? "Keeps the riff-raff out," that's what we always say. You think some SoCal-born wimp could put up with this nonsense? No way. North Dakotans are bred to tough out the winters here. It's literally in our blood. Short history lesson: A long time ago (in a land far away), the Russian monarchy, looking to settle some of their underpopulated land, advertised throughout the rest of Europe that people could move to Russia to live on and farm the land for free, in exchange for a percentage of their crop. A large number of Germans took them up on the offer and immigrated to Russia. After a few generations, Russia started to suck, so the Germans picked up and moved to the brand new United States of America. Guess where a large number of them settled? The upper mid-west. Guess why? Because it reminded them of home. Cold, crappy, treeless, flat-ass Russia. They knew how to survive and farm land in a hostile climate, and no one else wanted to live here, so BOOM. Home sweet home.
I think it's amusing that "weather" is sort of like, the quintessential world's-most-boring conversation topic. Only around here, it's not. When someone bursts through the front door, and says, "Man, it's cold out there!" It isn't just chilly. It means that exposed skin literally freezes in four and a half minutes. We live in a region where people still freeze to death annually. Freeze. To DEATH. Human popsicles. Unreal. Not only that, but weather is something that every single person around here has in common. It doesn't matter the color of your skin, your political opinions, or your tax bracket. Rich or poor, every last one of us fights the same battle five months a year. Icy roads don't care how nice your car is. That snow in your driveway doesn't give a crap how important your job is. Waitress or CEO, we all have to conquer the same mountains of frozen crunchy white stuff in our attempts to drive to work, and every single one of us will have disgusting snot-cicles when we get there. North Dakota winters are the universal f*cking equalizer.
And speaking of snow, does anyone else dislike it as much as I do? Pretty or not, I resent the fact that every winter, the sky dumps buckets and buckets of frozen water on our houses and streets. We spend millions of dollars on equipment to move it, shove it, pile it, stack it, get it OUT of the frickin' way so we can go about our daily business, and then, poof! It simply melts into nothingness. All that snow vanishes without a trace, making a mockery of the time and money we've spent dealing with it, yet again. I picture that little clay-mation character Jack Frost, laughing maniacally as he zips off to his vacation home in the Caribbean, where he'll sit sipping umbrella drinks all summer long until his calendar says it's time to go back to Fargo.
All that being said, I like living in North Dakota. Snow, schmo. If I lived in California, I'd be dealing with little earthquakes cracking the plaster up and down my walls. In Florida, there could be a giant mutant lizard lurking in my backyard, waiting to eat my dog. Whatever. It's stupid cold outside, and I felt like a short, winter-inspired rant. I know every single person who reads this probably can't feel their toes right now, so I think you'll all catch my drift. (No pun intended.)
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Yes, Regina, there is a Santa Claus.
It was just about three (or four?) years ago, and my husband and I were settled in for our annual Christmas visit with his family. As we sat around, sprawled out on sofas, chatting comfortably about a variety of topics, sipping toddies and throwing good-natured jabs, the conversation turned to the moment we all first realized that there wasn't really a Santa Claus. Stories of disappointment and devastation. My sister-in-law lamented that she'd spent at least two years pretending to believe in Santa after she'd realized the truth in order not to hurt her mother's feelings. As for myself? "I never believed in Santa," I said. Shocked utterances and stares of disbelief were immediately thrown my way, as I explained that my parents had tried very hard to keep Christmas a holy day, as opposed to a secular holiday. We still had presents and cookies and went to Santa's Village to pet the reindeer. We still watched Frosty the Snowman and How the Grinch Stole Christmas every year, but the emphasis of Christmas at our house was on angles, God, and stories of stars leading the wise men to the Nativity. I knew that Santa Claus wasn't any more real than the people dressed as Micky and Goofy at Disney World. But you should have heard the uproar when I announced that I had no intentions of deluding my own future children with such nonsense either.
"You can't do that! You'd be robbing your kids of their childhood! You'd be taking the magic of Christmas away from them!" There arose such a clatter that I nearly dropped my Christmas beverage. I looked at my husband for support, but he was staring at me like I was a total stranger. Apparently this was a topic that should have been discussed prior to our vows.
The debate fired on for quite some time, as I was accused of being heartless and un-American. My nephew said he'd never been much for Santa until he saw the joy and wonder on the face of his younger brother, and that however short-lived, he couldn't fathom taking that joy away from him. My sister-in-law was on my side, stating that she didn't want her kids to suffer the same inevitable disappointment that she did. I recalled a story from my own childhood in which I'd told some kids at school that Santa wasn't real, and how silly and naive I'd thought they were. ("You think some guy comes down the chimney with your presents? Your parents buy them, dummy.") This particular story didn't do much to bolster my image, but I maintained that I'd rather my kid be me in that scenario than the one who went home in tears.
All that said, NOT believing in Santa has not left me damaged, unpatriotic, or "scrooged" in any way. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find a bigger Christmas sap than me. I love to decorate, I love looking at lights, I love having a real tree (the bigger the better), I love the sound of the Salvation Army bells ringing, I even love the mall at Christmastime. The decorations, the people rushing around buying gifts for loved ones, and the smell of the Karmelkorn as you come in the west doors. Smells! Talk about smells. Cookies baking, cider simmering, turkey in the oven, my fresh-cut tree warming in the house. Those things don't smell the same at any other time of year. The same family that accused me of being heartless and anti-Santa had never even seen A Christmas Story until I came into their lives. (Talk about un-American! How does that even happen?) I will keep the Christmas music station on in my car from Thanksgiving until Christmas day, and no, I never get sick of it. I will watch fluffy heartwarming Hallmark Christmas movies one after the next, and I there has never once, ever, in all my 33 years, been an occasion on which I have not teared up at the end of It's A Wonderful Life. Ever.
The irony is that even though I never believed in Santa Claus, I do believe in Christmas magic. (And really, what's the difference?) It's the feeling you get when you plug in the very first strand of lights, or when you see a child come in from playing in the snow, red-faced and sweaty, ready for hot chocolate. It's seeing someone quickly shove a twenty into the red kettle instead of change, or pass up a good parking spot because they know that another car has been cruising the lot for 10 minutes already. What's more magical than that? (Especially in North Dakota.) On Christmas day, a child was born that would change the world. He brought hope and possibility into the world in a way that only a child can. And that's magic. I believe in God, even though I can't see Him or prove He's real. Faith is believing in something, even when common sense tells you not to. It's every bit as hard to prove there is a Santa as it is to prove there is a God, and if you believe in one, then why not the other? If I'm ever faced with the wide eyes of a child, asking me if Santa Claus is real, I guess I'll just have to be honest. No one really knows, so....maybe he is. ;)
Merry Christmas!
"You can't do that! You'd be robbing your kids of their childhood! You'd be taking the magic of Christmas away from them!" There arose such a clatter that I nearly dropped my Christmas beverage. I looked at my husband for support, but he was staring at me like I was a total stranger. Apparently this was a topic that should have been discussed prior to our vows.
The debate fired on for quite some time, as I was accused of being heartless and un-American. My nephew said he'd never been much for Santa until he saw the joy and wonder on the face of his younger brother, and that however short-lived, he couldn't fathom taking that joy away from him. My sister-in-law was on my side, stating that she didn't want her kids to suffer the same inevitable disappointment that she did. I recalled a story from my own childhood in which I'd told some kids at school that Santa wasn't real, and how silly and naive I'd thought they were. ("You think some guy comes down the chimney with your presents? Your parents buy them, dummy.") This particular story didn't do much to bolster my image, but I maintained that I'd rather my kid be me in that scenario than the one who went home in tears.
All that said, NOT believing in Santa has not left me damaged, unpatriotic, or "scrooged" in any way. In fact, you'd be hard-pressed to find a bigger Christmas sap than me. I love to decorate, I love looking at lights, I love having a real tree (the bigger the better), I love the sound of the Salvation Army bells ringing, I even love the mall at Christmastime. The decorations, the people rushing around buying gifts for loved ones, and the smell of the Karmelkorn as you come in the west doors. Smells! Talk about smells. Cookies baking, cider simmering, turkey in the oven, my fresh-cut tree warming in the house. Those things don't smell the same at any other time of year. The same family that accused me of being heartless and anti-Santa had never even seen A Christmas Story until I came into their lives. (Talk about un-American! How does that even happen?) I will keep the Christmas music station on in my car from Thanksgiving until Christmas day, and no, I never get sick of it. I will watch fluffy heartwarming Hallmark Christmas movies one after the next, and I there has never once, ever, in all my 33 years, been an occasion on which I have not teared up at the end of It's A Wonderful Life. Ever.
The irony is that even though I never believed in Santa Claus, I do believe in Christmas magic. (And really, what's the difference?) It's the feeling you get when you plug in the very first strand of lights, or when you see a child come in from playing in the snow, red-faced and sweaty, ready for hot chocolate. It's seeing someone quickly shove a twenty into the red kettle instead of change, or pass up a good parking spot because they know that another car has been cruising the lot for 10 minutes already. What's more magical than that? (Especially in North Dakota.) On Christmas day, a child was born that would change the world. He brought hope and possibility into the world in a way that only a child can. And that's magic. I believe in God, even though I can't see Him or prove He's real. Faith is believing in something, even when common sense tells you not to. It's every bit as hard to prove there is a Santa as it is to prove there is a God, and if you believe in one, then why not the other? If I'm ever faced with the wide eyes of a child, asking me if Santa Claus is real, I guess I'll just have to be honest. No one really knows, so....maybe he is. ;)
Merry Christmas!
Friday, September 7, 2012
The mid-life crisis continues...
Remember when you were young, and your birthday was the most exciting thing in the world? I was always confused by adults not wanting to celebrate their birthdays, or getting mad when I asked how old they were. (Probably because thirty-five was an unimaginably high number that I hadn't even leaned to count to in school yet. I'm sure my gasps and, "Whoa, you're old!"s were not appreciated.) Yeah. Those were the good old days. (No pun intended.)
I have at last reached the age of dreading my birthday. It looms in the distance like a storm on the horizon. I swear, I hear thunder in the distance. I hear ominous church bells tolling in my brain, growing louder and louder as each day passes, and I grow yet another day closer to death. Cake and ice cream? With my ever-slowing metabolism? Are you kidding me? Completely out of the question. (I'll take my calories in liquid form, thank you very much.)
Why is it so hard to get older? Is it the agony of watching my face and body change, ever so slowly, and painfully irreversibly, each day in the mirror? Isn't age just a number? Or is it really a numerical reminder that after three decades, I have no kids, no "career", and NO -count them, no- Academy Awards? Not even a Tony. It's funny how I never realized what a fountain of wasted potential I am until I turned 30. And here I am, three years later, desperately trying to recapture something that I feel I've lost.
I have officially entered the Mid-Life Crisis Zone.
A lot of people scoff at this and snap, "You're too young to have a mid-life crisis." I beg to differ. I feel the term "mid-life" isn't necessarily applicable to the actual age of the stricken, it's more a state of mind concurrent with the desire to be younger, no matter what the reason. Like when a new baby arrives in the household, and all of a sudden your 5-year-old wants to sleep in his crib and drink from a bottle again. Call it an "age crisis", if you prefer.
My age crisis started right around 30, and over the past few years has manifested itself in the form of no fewer than three tattoos, two piercings, two job changes, an eyebrow-raising hobby (pole dancing), a change of hair-color that has included both feathers and blue streaks, and an uncontrollable urge to wear fishnets and leopard-print apparel. I briefly toyed with the notion of getting a motorcycle, but my husband finally put his foot down and said I could have a motorcycle or a classic car, but not both. And someday, I'm GETTING that car. So the motorcycle is off the table at the moment. I've also taken a recent liking to antiques, something I've always admired, but never bought or collected. I can only assume that this (combined with too much History Channel) stems from a desire to feel younger by surrounding myself with things that are older than I am.
I think a large part of my crisis has to do with appearance, which may sound vain, but I think any and all females begin to experience this at some point. I have multiple friends who've already gone under the knife, needle, and suction-tube in an effort to slow the clock. You wake up one morning, and suddenly there's a stranger in the mirror. A banged-up version of your former self, with circles under her eyes, cellulite-y thighs hanging out of her shorts, weird little wrinkles you never noticed before, and an army of grey hairs that you'd swear weren't there yesterday. Suddenly spending a hundred bucks at the salon seems like a deal. Anything to hide the grey! Anti-wrinkle creams and moisturizers are a must. Time travel in a jar, you say? Sign me up! Facial peels, Botox, eye-lifts...whatever it costs, I'll pay it! After all, can you really put a price on your face?! There's got to be a way, you tell yourself. I am Ponce de Leon. He died searching for the fountain of youth, and likely, so will I.
One day I was shopping, and as I passed rack after rack of skinny jeans and t-shirts that screamed, "Your boyfriend thinks I'm hot", I realized that the age gap between me and the person who'd actually wear that stuff is probably over fifteen years. Shopping with my young cousin at Hot Topic, I realized that I was the oldest person in the store. Even the manager looked too young to vote. It was like a wrecking ball to the gut. I was originally thrilled when Forever 21 opened in the mall, and now even the name of the store sounds like a cruel irony. Am I too old to shop in juniors? Is the twenty-something on the other side of the rack looking at me sideways, thinking, what is SHE doing here? Am I officially relegated to the misses section, where instead of hoodies, the racks boast shapeless cardigans and shoulder-padded blazers? And they sell jeans with *gulp* elastic waistbands??? NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! IT'S NOT FAIR!!! I WON'T DO IT.
I'm 33 years old. My bucket list is three pages long, and I WILL keep crossing things off. I vow to embrace what remains of my youth. I will hold fast to the notion that I'm only as old as I feel, and I WILL BUY whatever clothes I want. After all, now that I'm a grown-up, I can afford them. I'll get as many stupid tattoos and piercings as I want, and I'm not going to give a rat's ass how they'll look when I'm 80. I'm going to spend ridiculous amounts of money on anti-aging serums and cute underwear, because self-esteem is priceless. I'm going to get drunk at concerts and sing at the top of my lungs. I'm going to put up a pole in my living room, and hang upside down on it! I'm going to see the world. And I'm going to have the time of my life until they pry the '49 Chevy Fastback keys from my cold, dead hands.
And THAT, my friends, is my happy birthday to me! :)
I have at last reached the age of dreading my birthday. It looms in the distance like a storm on the horizon. I swear, I hear thunder in the distance. I hear ominous church bells tolling in my brain, growing louder and louder as each day passes, and I grow yet another day closer to death. Cake and ice cream? With my ever-slowing metabolism? Are you kidding me? Completely out of the question. (I'll take my calories in liquid form, thank you very much.)
Why is it so hard to get older? Is it the agony of watching my face and body change, ever so slowly, and painfully irreversibly, each day in the mirror? Isn't age just a number? Or is it really a numerical reminder that after three decades, I have no kids, no "career", and NO -count them, no- Academy Awards? Not even a Tony. It's funny how I never realized what a fountain of wasted potential I am until I turned 30. And here I am, three years later, desperately trying to recapture something that I feel I've lost.
I have officially entered the Mid-Life Crisis Zone.
A lot of people scoff at this and snap, "You're too young to have a mid-life crisis." I beg to differ. I feel the term "mid-life" isn't necessarily applicable to the actual age of the stricken, it's more a state of mind concurrent with the desire to be younger, no matter what the reason. Like when a new baby arrives in the household, and all of a sudden your 5-year-old wants to sleep in his crib and drink from a bottle again. Call it an "age crisis", if you prefer.
My age crisis started right around 30, and over the past few years has manifested itself in the form of no fewer than three tattoos, two piercings, two job changes, an eyebrow-raising hobby (pole dancing), a change of hair-color that has included both feathers and blue streaks, and an uncontrollable urge to wear fishnets and leopard-print apparel. I briefly toyed with the notion of getting a motorcycle, but my husband finally put his foot down and said I could have a motorcycle or a classic car, but not both. And someday, I'm GETTING that car. So the motorcycle is off the table at the moment. I've also taken a recent liking to antiques, something I've always admired, but never bought or collected. I can only assume that this (combined with too much History Channel) stems from a desire to feel younger by surrounding myself with things that are older than I am.
I think a large part of my crisis has to do with appearance, which may sound vain, but I think any and all females begin to experience this at some point. I have multiple friends who've already gone under the knife, needle, and suction-tube in an effort to slow the clock. You wake up one morning, and suddenly there's a stranger in the mirror. A banged-up version of your former self, with circles under her eyes, cellulite-y thighs hanging out of her shorts, weird little wrinkles you never noticed before, and an army of grey hairs that you'd swear weren't there yesterday. Suddenly spending a hundred bucks at the salon seems like a deal. Anything to hide the grey! Anti-wrinkle creams and moisturizers are a must. Time travel in a jar, you say? Sign me up! Facial peels, Botox, eye-lifts...whatever it costs, I'll pay it! After all, can you really put a price on your face?! There's got to be a way, you tell yourself. I am Ponce de Leon. He died searching for the fountain of youth, and likely, so will I.
One day I was shopping, and as I passed rack after rack of skinny jeans and t-shirts that screamed, "Your boyfriend thinks I'm hot", I realized that the age gap between me and the person who'd actually wear that stuff is probably over fifteen years. Shopping with my young cousin at Hot Topic, I realized that I was the oldest person in the store. Even the manager looked too young to vote. It was like a wrecking ball to the gut. I was originally thrilled when Forever 21 opened in the mall, and now even the name of the store sounds like a cruel irony. Am I too old to shop in juniors? Is the twenty-something on the other side of the rack looking at me sideways, thinking, what is SHE doing here? Am I officially relegated to the misses section, where instead of hoodies, the racks boast shapeless cardigans and shoulder-padded blazers? And they sell jeans with *gulp* elastic waistbands??? NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! IT'S NOT FAIR!!! I WON'T DO IT.
I'm 33 years old. My bucket list is three pages long, and I WILL keep crossing things off. I vow to embrace what remains of my youth. I will hold fast to the notion that I'm only as old as I feel, and I WILL BUY whatever clothes I want. After all, now that I'm a grown-up, I can afford them. I'll get as many stupid tattoos and piercings as I want, and I'm not going to give a rat's ass how they'll look when I'm 80. I'm going to spend ridiculous amounts of money on anti-aging serums and cute underwear, because self-esteem is priceless. I'm going to get drunk at concerts and sing at the top of my lungs. I'm going to put up a pole in my living room, and hang upside down on it! I'm going to see the world. And I'm going to have the time of my life until they pry the '49 Chevy Fastback keys from my cold, dead hands.
And THAT, my friends, is my happy birthday to me! :)
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