I get a little disappointed on my birthday. It started somewhere around the late 30s (because who gets disappointed about birthdays in their 20s? No one. That’s who.) I’ve noticed my birthday not only makes me think, “Holy shit–how did another year fly by like that?” but, I also find myself, each year, disappointed that it doesn’t seem like I’m as far along at 39, 40, 41, and now 42, as I should be. Like I should be doing and being so much more by this date, and fuck. What a disappointment.
I went through some things this past year. While my 40s, so far, have collectively been the best decade ever in only two years, I’ve experienced some uncertainty regarding my place in the universe. Or more specifically, how I’m going to bring home the goddamn turkey bacon . I wondered if maybe this freelance thing isn’t for me until I went back to an office for a couple months and realized well damn, that’s definitely not for me. I stopped blogging shortly after a client passed on me, presumably because I didn’t interview the way I blogged. As if I should have walked into the interview like, “I’m here bitches. What” reciting the poetry of Stupid List Friday: This Week in Crazy Bitches. Somewhere I figured professional trumped fun and in some instances I was right. Some I wasn’t. I accepted that I am more well known in other states and other parts of the world than I am in my own tiny little town. I did not know that people actually liked blog me better than real me.
I bounced back. And somehow everything’s okay. I am a lucky girl. I am noticing, however, that clients are asking for people who can write for a target audience younger than I am. I wonder if that means I’m that person now who has to hide her age to get hired. When the fuck did I become that person?
I lost whatever I had online. Social media isn’t fun anymore. I quit posting about things that really move me simply because I can no longer bear the anxiety of arguing with family members and “friends”. I hide the feeds of people I cannot unfriend but also can’t agree with. I no longer try to enlighten everyone with the truth because most people don’t even want your shitty truth . I passive aggressively “like” things in my feed just because I know it’ll go through your feed and although I didn’t post it, I know you will see it. This isn’t me. I get paid for this. I need to figure out how to make social media fun again and more bitey.
I got a dog. I became the person who is strangely aloof about poop scooping and equally unbothered by dog hair all over the house. I like to think Monty was for my daughter, but maybe I needed someone, now that she’s a pre-teen, to speak baby talk to. I sold my leather couch because I thought Monty would tear it up. That was like a year ago. I still don’t have a couch. We have one chair in the living room and it’s Monty’s chair. But, I sleep 110% better at night now. Which, if you remember, my sleep rate at best was like 25%, which means, with the dog, I now sleep like over 50% or something. I don’t know. Maths.
My daughter is stunning. I noticed in a simple selfie how breathtaking she is. I don’t think you understand how utterly terrifying that is to me, especially when she’s building a pretty good case for allowing her to have Instagram. I can’t be the only parent afraid for her daughter to grow up in this world. Because, not to be a downer, but this world can be pretty fucked up and I know this because I grew up in a world that was just as, if not more fucked up. If you wrote down all the problems of the world, your community, your family, your life, you’d probably realize if you haven’t already, that holy shit, this is no place to raise a kid. Like, you gotta be either dumb as a Walmart flipflop or just really, really brave.
Philanthropy is important. I don’t talk about this a lot because I feel like you should do and give without expecting any sort of recognition. I don’t think I hate anything more than Facebook statuses with selfies about the good deed you did today. Makes me want to call you out on your bullshit, but I don’t do that anymore (see above). Anyway, I’ve learned through the years, especially this last, that helping others makes me feel less disappointed in my own personal progress. Which sort of means, I’m actually doing it for myself. Shit.
My grandmother passed away yesterday. I’ve been thinking a lot about the formalities and rituals of funerals and why we do the things we do. I’ve wondered if God is really omnipotent, why he didn’t devise a plan to create, forgive, and let live forever. Like, he’s god. No one legit has to die if he doesn’t want them to and before you various theology scholars comment about living forever spiritually, I mean physically.
It has occurred to me that if no one ever died, we might never really appreciate life. We would have nothing to lose. We would not have the sadness and sorrow that death brings. We’d be living like there’s no tomorrow, except there would always be a tomorrow but who the fuck would care if every day tomorrow is guaranteed. We wouldn’t look at our children, our family members, and our friends, and imagine how excruciatingly soul-crushing it would be to lose them. We wouldn’t be forced to stop and breathe and tell ourselves that yes, another year has come and gone and we really haven’t done shit any more useful, better, or significant than last year.
And, we wouldn’t be able to complain on our 42nd birthday that fuck this shit is kinda disappointing, because you’d know you have an eternity to keep noticing stuff and a good chance you’d eventually get it right.
I think I might want to blog again.