May 8, 2015
I don’t remember being in my early 20’s and feeling this crushing weight, this need to figure life out. Maybe it’s a late 20’s thing? But it just occurred to me the other day while I was in the kitchen (I’m pretty sure 87% of my life is spent in that room) that just as there is no “hey you’re finally famous!” moment, there is also no “aha!” moment. It’s a grind, it’s a sucky slog sometimes. And some days need to be just sat in the mud but I don’t think we should stay there too long waiting because, as I just said, the moment just ain’t coming when we will finally, FINALLY know what the deal is. It’s kind of a big letdown. You mean I have to spend my whole entire life wondering, guessing, taking stab after stab in the dark and hoping, praying, aching to grab a few scratchy particles of stardust? I imagine stardust to look like gold glitter. But yes, that is what I do mean. Unless, of course, the joke is on me and there really are ladies in fancy pencil skirts and high ponytails who are always on time and can define themselves wholly in 3 words and their kids eat their veggies and their legs are always shaved and they never, ever second guess or have regrets or feel uncertain.
I’m holding onto this idea of perfection and I have to let it go. But I don’t even know how. I try to be ok with the mess and the not knowing and the crumbs on the floor. I try to give myself pep talks and kind thoughts but they are not loud enough or strong enough against the voice that says: Do more. Be more. Be everything. Be her. Figure yourself the fuck out and stop crying about it and just do it.
We all know this though, right? We all know that life is hard and confusing and sometimes fun but sometimes boring. I know fancy pencil skirt lady is a mirage, a mean trick my mind is trying to play on me. I do wish I could just whoosh past this phase, this late 20’s not knowing and wishing for what’s next. But I know where that wishing leads. It leads to a different setting that’s exciting for about 2.5 minutes which I thought would fulfill me but I end up waiting for the next and the next and the next.
I don’t love these pep talks. I keep saying to myself that I need to stop waiting for permission to just say what I want to say. And then I go, hm, well what do I mean to say? I don’t know. And then inevitably someone pops into my head, usually a writer, who’s writing is funny or descriptive or moving and they just seem so together and I think ah, I need to be like them. I need to say what they say. No, no. No. NO. N to the O, no.
And that’s why it’s so hard. Forging your identity when you have absolutely no idea what your calling is or what you’re best at or even what you want to say is kind of like meal planning or potty training a kid who loves diapers. Lots of head banging and tears and shit where it shouldn’t be.
So, forgive me. Forgive me as I probably say the same thing 27 times over trying to convince myself that it’s ok, I’m ok, we’re all gonna be just fine. Forgive me as I stab and stab and stab into the blinding blackness. I’m just hoping to catch some stardust.