Thirty

I woke up one day and I was thirty. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. Twenty nine was harsh; I tried to feel good about it, but I could not shake the feeling that I was approaching a very important deadline that I was unprepared to meet. When I turned twenty, I had an idea of what I wanted my life to look like by the time I turned thirty. Do the ideal and the reality line up? Not at all. I have the family I always wanted, though I’m not very good at managing it, and often feel like the world’s finest screw-up in the areas of “wife” and “mother.” I have the cute little house and the nice car and the freedom to indulge in a few extravagances like impractical shoes and hardcover books, but I didn’t earn any of these things myself and I often feel like a freeloader, and still ask permission for every little dollar I spend. I have a job, but it’s not the job I had in mind after I went through all kinds of crap to earn my degree. I’m physically healthier than I was so many years ago when I was battling anorexia, but I find that new stresses have made me start to revert to old habits, and I’m struggling to keep myself from sliding so far downhill so fast that I won’t be able to get a hold on myself. Some days I feel old, some days I feel like a child, some days I don’t know who the hell I am and I just want to stay in bed and sleep.

So there it is: I’m not happy with the way my life has turned out so far. But there is a positive side here. I woke up one day and I was thirty, and it feels good to be thirty. Well, it feels more good than not good to be thirty. Part of me is lamenting the way I’ve wasted years doing not much of anything (though I did have a couple of babies, which is no small thing), but part of me is happy that I have the insight to do something more with my next ten years. I have the desire, now I just need to work on the logistics. It seems that I have quite a mess here, and I don’t know what to do with it. I’ve been doing all I know how to do, which is to start small, to start with one thing and go from there. Right now I’m focusing on my writing, since it seems to be the easiest thing for me these days. There are other facets of my life that need retooling, but anytime I attempt to make those changes, fear makes me back off. So I’ll start with something I feel I can handle, and maybe, at some point, I can begin to approach those larger, scarier aspects of my unhappiness.

I have to admit, though I am allowing myself to feel excited for the future, I’m more terrified than anything. I think about all the possibilities and I feel overwhelmed. That’s the problem with complacency; it becomes comfortable and safe and the temptation to stay in that state is so strong that you can begin to tell yourself things that aren’t true and don’t make any sense. You mutter things like, I’ll never be able to do this. I’m just going to make things worse for everybody. There is no reason I can’t just continue living life this way; it’s not like it’s killing me or anything. You push your feelings away and convince yourself that everything is just fine and the next thing you know, you wake up and you’re thirty. Or forty, or fifty. As tempting as complacency is, I know I can’t stay there. I know that’s not who I am, not who I was ever meant to be. So as much as it hurts, as much as it terrifies me, I have to do something. One thing I know for certain is that, no matter what happens, I will ultimately be okay. I’ve been through some real hell in my life, but somehow I have always, always, gotten back to okay. I’m going to have to just trust that certainty, shut my eyes, and jump in, and hope to hell I find my way back out again.

Don't let me get me...

I think I have finally gotten sick of myself. Considering how much time I spend with myself (thirty years straight without even a thirty second break), it’s amazing this hasn’t happened sooner. I don’t want to be misunderstood: I like myself just fine, I’m just feeling like certain parts of my self are starting to wear me out. For example, the time as I write this is 12:34am (side note: this is my favorite time of day, am or pm). I’m exhausted, but I will probably stay awake for another hour or so, even though I know that my daughter will come wake me up at 6:30am. I would go to bed, but I already know I won’t sleep; I have been a raging insomniac since I was a kid, and though it has improved over the years, I still have erratic cycles in my sleep patterns. So, yeah, I could do without the night-owl side of my personality.

Another one of my irritating facets: This non-stop mind of mine. Yes, I am a talker, but it just so happens that I’m a thinker, too. Sometimes it’s deep, but much of the time it’s just stupid and repetitive, nothing worth voicing. I make a lot of plans in my head, but they don’t often go anywhere, and I love to beat ideas to death until they don’t have an ounce of coherence about them. To understand how this works, say the word “book” over and over and over again until it becomes nothing more than a strange sound coming out of your mouth. That’s how it is inside my head. I’m also great at filling in the blanks with half-baked assumptions that nearly always come back to bite me in the ass, and of course, replaying past events not the way they happened, but how I wish they had happened.

I think I’m also getting tired of the sound of my own voice. I’ve become so rooted in this part of myself that it has become somewhat of a trademark of mine: I’m the girl who talks. A lot. My husband dreads going certain places with me because there’s always a good possibility I will run into someone I know and start a conversation. I understand his frustration; there is nothing more difficult than pulling me away from a good conversation. I have tried to be quiet and observant, but when I do that, people assume something is wrong, and then I have to explain with great insistence that I am fine, I’m just not feeling very talkative at that moment. A shocking concept, I know, but there are times when I just don’t feel like saying much. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.

So what to do about these problems? Honestly, I don’t think I’ll do anything, simply because it isn’t my style. Not to say that I’m lazy, but I think these little tics of mine are permanent, and not bothersome enough to worry about. I could have worse glitches, like unforgivable body odor or a violent temper or a proclivity for improper word usage. I’m not happy about any of this stuff right now (the fact that it is now nearly 2:00am does not help), but I know that I’ll soon be distracted enough to let them slide and pretend that I’m just fine and dandy until the next time I’m bored in the middle of the night and decide to pick on myself. But it’s okay because of one little thing I failed to mention: I am very good at distracting myself. Thank God for computer solitaire and iPods…

Life as a Gimp

Life in a cast sucks. I’m not very good at being uncomfortable; this is the reason I don’t go camping often, why I don’t hang around people who bother me, and why I will not be having any more babies. I still feel bad for my husband, who spent a collective eighteen months with pregnant me; there was non-stop whining, high drama, and quite a few shrill notes for him. Of course, life in a cast is not nearly as difficult as life lived for two, but it is definitely not anything I’m going to miss. Everything seems to take three times longer than it used to, I have to shower with a plastic bag on my arm, I can’t type worth crap, and all my best dance moves are significantly dorkier with this bright purple hook. Bathroom trips are lots of fun; if I’m not back in ten minutes, don’t send a search party, I’m probably just fighting with the button on my jeans. I have to explain my injury and the strange angle of my cast at least fifty times a day and assure people that yes, it was put on right, that I didn’t put it on myself. You should see me try to open cans, jars, and even Ziplock bags. (Little confession here: I really can’t open Ziplock bags. At all. If my husband isn’t around to help, I just tear the crap out of them. With my teeth.) Diaper changes are the best, especially since my son always tries to get away, and nearly always succeeds in his escape. By the time I adjust to all of this, it will be time to take the cast off.

Though I am a shameless whiner, I’m also oddly optimistic and positive about this whole thing. There are a few good things about the cast. For one, it is a nice shade of purple. I was going to go with black, but I decided to let my daughter choose the color instead. She loves it so much that she wants it when I’m done with it. I’m saving money, since I can’t really use my gym membership right now (though I do miss those stress-relieving workouts). I probably could hit the treadmill, but I’m afraid of the sweating and itching, and the possible unpleasant, possibly permanent, smell that could result from that. I’m forced to slow down, since I am physically incapable of doing anything quickly, so I’m getting a lot less done in a lot more time. This is good, I think. Everyone’s always telling me I need to slow down, so there must be something to be gained from this. Maybe I’m more connected with myself and the present moment or something like that. Having an obvious injury does garner some sympathy from strangers, so work has been much easier to deal with, aside from the one grown man who stuck his lip out at me and said in a baby voice, “Looks like somebody has an owie!” Give me credit: I didn’t beat the man with my cast. The best thing about this cast? Well, even I have to admit that it is pretty funny. My friends make cruel jokes and mock me, but I can’t help but laugh because I know they are right: this is funny, on so many levels. I’m sure I’ll be laughing about it for years.

I really can’t complain too much; this thing comes off in just a little over two weeks, one week earlier than it was supposed to come off. I am a little worried about a few things, though. I’m not excited to see my wrist after six weeks of injury and atrophy. I saw it after just one week in a cast, and it looked smushy and white and just weird. I wonder if there will be any permanent affects, like clicking sounds in my wrist, or an ability to predict the weather with my wrist pain. What if I cant type as well or hoochie dance quite the same ever again? Well, whatever the pitfalls may be, I’ll be happy to get rid of this cast. I plan on celebrating. With cake. Lots of cake. And I’m going to eat it with my left hand.