the look of twenty-eight

I remember that when I turned twenty-four I kept thinking I was twenty-five. When people asked my age, I always had to think for a moment.

At twenty-five, I thought I was twenty-six. At twenty-seven, twenty-eight. But now that I'm here, at twenty-eight, I feel firmly planted in this age. Which is a nice sort of feeling.

I had such a good weekend. Birthdays are freeing things. I'm more courageous. I wear skirts and heels I'd normally think too short. I pull out my camera. I don't feel so bad about badgering my friends to take photos. Because in the conversation I have with myself in which I usually get nervous or shy or whatever, my birthday-self-rejoinder is, but it's my birthday! And the thing about having your birthday on a Friday is that you get to celebrate all weekend: drinks and dinner and late afternoon brunches. And you collect flowers like it's your job.

I have the loveliest friends. I am so lucky. No-nonsense friends who give pep-talks and listen patiently. Friends who let me cry and laugh in the span of a breath. Who bring me flowers and invite me last minute to dinner, just because they know I need to get out of the house. Friends who remind me the best is yet to come. Who tell me how beautiful I am and exclaim, this is the best possible thing , before I can see the sense of that thought. Friends who make my life rich in immeasurable ways. Friends who made the first few days of twenty-eight absolutely delicious.

how it ends

  I could give you ten reasons, right now, why it never would have worked. Simple things. Stupid things. Like how I loved the rain and he did not. His propensity for clean lines and my affection for a bit of muss.

Big things too. The sort of things larger than language allows for.

And I knew, I knew it wasn't right. On an intellectual level, on a gut level.

So I didn't think I'd be so sad.

But, the thing is, for just a moment, we were tethered, one to the other. And everything meant a bit more because of that. Because of the possibility of that.

But on the other side of that possibility is what is felt and what is not. And for that there are no reasons, just a very lonely road one must travel between the two.

what i know at 28 (or some of it, at least)

 

Use toner. It is just exactly as important as you sort of hope it isn't.

Sometimes the kindness in a stranger's eyes can break your heart. Sometimes it can save your life.

Mostly everyone is as terrified as you. More so, usually. Remembering this should engender a little kindness, and courage.

Say yes when someone asks you if they can get you a cup of coffee. It's not really about the coffee.

There are conversations that will mark you--that once had will live in you from that point on. You won't know of course, until much later, until time has allowed them to settle. So be forewarned, if when speaking to you about fear, a man talks of heights and water and precipitous cliffs (and having conquered those things), but says nothing of what keeps him up at night, don't fall in love with him. He's not worth it; he's not conquered fear, he's hidden from it. And the thing about fear is, it illuminates a lot, reveals us to ourselves, points to what's most important. So what that means, really, is here's a man who's hidden from himself and you don't have the time for that. Drink that second glass of wine, kiss him once on each cheek, make your apologies and go.

The movie Notting Hill is chock-a-block full of some pretty important life-lessons. Like how the simplest things are the most meaningful. (Like sitting on a bench). And there is a lesson in that--THE lesson, maybe.

You have to be willing to say the things you're most afraid to say.

Living in New York can be hard for the simple fact that on a crowded subway platform there'll be at least one person who looks like someone you once loved.

Sometimes (and by sometimes I mean almost always) men are a little dense. They take things literally. And you have to be far clearer than you want to be, which feels a little bit hard and a little bit unfair because you're already like three feet past solid ground, just chillin' in the-land-of-vulnerability  and that is hard as fuck. (Pardon the language, but it's true). Thing is, nobody said it would be easy. And it's okay if it's not. In fact, maybe it shouldn't be.

It's okay if life is a little bit hard. And it's okay if you get a little bit blue. In fact, it's okay if you get a lot blue. It'll pass.

And it is okay not to know. Let me say that again: It is okay NOT. TO. KNOW. Which really means you gotta hold yourself accountable in those moments when you start filling in the blanks with what you think or predict or divine because the not-knowing is so damn uncomfortable. At first, you may not even realize you're doing this. Don't confuse what-you've-made-up with reality. Give it more time. Exercise patience. Remind yourself, again and again that the unknown can be a delicious thing.

If he stands you up on the first day (without meaning to), try again.

Keep going. In all matters. Keep going. Even and most especially when it feels like you're lugging your whole life behind you. Because it won't always feel that way. Change is a mysterious and magical thing.

" "

  Our lives are not as limited as we think they are; the world is a wonderfully weird place; consensual reality is significantly flawed; no institution can be trusted, but love does work; all things are possible; and we could all be happy and fulfilled if we only had the guts to be truly free and the wisdom to shrink our egos and quit taking ourselves so damn seriously. | Tom Robbins

a new age of lonely

I'm turning twenty-eight on Friday and...the craziest thing, I know you're not gonna believe this, but, I uh. Hmmm. I don't feel great about it. (Twenty-eight).

Not so young anymore. And I know the forty-year-olds reading this are rolling their eyes, thinking lucky you, and actually that's a comforting thought, because, yes, it's true, I'm not forty. Not yet.

But I keep looking in the mirror thinking, Oh, okay, my perfect skin is not so perfect anymore. And I look tired. But it's not that I look tired. It's that I look older.

Aging.

Aging as a woman and the vanity that ensues.

I've gotten a new job. It's just about a month old. And I really like it.

But for the first time, in my adult life, I have a relatively normal schedule. Which means my nights and weekends are free. And now I take the subway home each evening, to my tiny, studio apartment. Which I love, but for that it somehow feels emptier at night.

And as it turns out, evening loneliness is a whole different beast.

A week from twenty-eight, living alone in a tiny apartment, thousands of miles from my family, in a life so different than what I imagined ten years ago...well, euf.

And that is both a blessing and a very, very bitter pill to swallow.

Riding the subway home today, a pungent combination of body-oder, McDonalds, and marijuana filling the train, I thought, I'm too old for this. If this is New York, I'm too old for this. And I felt the first rumblings of a cry come one. So I got off the subway two stops too soon, took the long walk home, and by the time I'd walked the four flights of stairs to my door, I was literally gasping for air.

It's a funny thing, crying in that way that's full body and surprising and absolutely sweet. And a little bit holy. Painful, but holy, too. I sat on the edge of the bed before lying down flat, tears pooling in the crook of my ears and mascara suddenly all over my face and hands and legs.

I never really know what color my eyes are. Until I cry. And then I get why people call them green. And I suppose they are.

I windexed my floor tonight. Because that seemed like the totally sensible thing to do after a really good cry when there isn't a swiffer wipe in sight. I sat on my bum and windexed the refinished wood floors. Paper toweling and spray bottle.

I'm a week away from twenty-eight, making peace with a new sort of lonely. Humbled by the fact that it's still just my lonely. And at this age, I didn't think that would be the case.

I think as you get older you begin to realize you have to have like two-days or two-months or two-years-more-worth-of-patience in you than you even think possible. Because the timeline is not your own.

And there will come a day when we'll all end up with mascara on our legs. And that's okay. Holy, in its own way.