I once always embraced—okay, bragged about—getting older. “I’m aging like a fine wine,” I said on my 28th birthday, celebrating with friends in Seattle. Looking back, I realize those words showed a touch of hubris I didn’t notice until now. Maybe it’s something about turning 30.
At 21, 30 felt like a distant valley populated by couples and their requisite 2.5 kids. I was in my first serious relationship, marriage-bound, I was sure, and had just started working at a local newspaper. I was very proud of myself—only 21, but already settled, with a job in my field two weeks after graduating! I had it together! Now I laugh, thinking what a kid I was to think that. In many ways, I still am.
Take, for instance, a recent conversation I had with my father. I’m reasonably content with my life, I said, but I craved the old excitement of college. I missed meeting new people every day. I even missed the topsy-turvy explorations of most of my 20s, marked by several jobs, relationships and apartment rentals, each phase both a lesson and an impetus. Today I’m single and living in a condo I bought three years ago. In many ways, my life is far more stable than it was when I was 21.
Yet, here I was, approaching 30, and that image I had when I was 21, that magical land of young families, loomed before me. And because I wasn’t a part of it, I wasn’t measuring up. “Of course you can’t expect things to just happen!” my father said. “And there are things that happen you can’t do anything about. Like when I got cancer, for instance.”
Just as he often wondered why he had gotten sick, he said, I often wondered why some area of my life didn’t seem satisfying. When I did that, I wasted time on what I couldn’t control. “You picture what you think should be there, instead of accepting what it is, and being grateful for it.” He was right, of course.
My picture of 30 was based on stereotypes I’d formed almost 10 years ago, ignoring the unique life experiences I’d accrued along the way, experiences only I had lived. And that’s when I realized it. My dissatisfaction with parts of my life was really about dissatisfaction with parts of myself. I wanted to be smarter, prettier, better. In the meantime, I was ignoring everything I was: perfectly intelligent, attractive and capable.
I don’t know what will happen this year, but I do know this: I am enough. I may not always be able to define the picture in front of me, but I will always have enough—enough ability, enough insight, enough perspective—to appreciate it.
6 comments:
Larissa, you must add "great classmate" to that list. I had a lot of fun getting to know you during the MFA residency, I am glad we hit it off. When I hit 30 I was still wondering when I was supposed to feel old and grown-up; I turn 38 soon and still feel that way. It's about how you feel.
Well written!
Aw! Thank you, David. :) Back at ya. And, yeah, age is just a number, ultimately, I suppose.
You're such a wonderful writer, and you capture the essence of the situation. You are exactly where you're supposed to be in your life. I married my first time at 35. That failed, and it took me until 47 to learn how to do it right. And David...I'm 56 and I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up. Maybe I'll be a writer :)
Thank you, Brian. From what I got to read of your work in the workshop, I must say, your compliment means that much more. ;) You are a helluva wordsmith. :)
Well, "great daughter," of course, it's so obvious. Moreover, you're in a much different place than I was, when I turned 30. In a way, you've had the opportunity to explore so many things, unencumbered by a marriage and the "2.5" kids thing. You came into my life, just before ~I turned 30. As I've mentioned before, your talent and innate ability to reflect, respond and create is such a gift. I am grateful you have had this growth, and hey, just wait 'til you hit 40! LOL!
Thanks, Mom. You were the one who told me life starts at 40. :) I'll be ready.
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