Thursday, July 25, 2013

by thirty

In a certain number of weeks, I will be thirty. Years old, that is (though wouldn't it be nice if the end of that sentence was "grand richer"). The deadline, as I've begun to think of it, is fast approaching. At 17, I expected to feel the LOOM OF 30 by some sort of obvious and typical sign post -- jewellery or uterus inhabitants -- but as it turns out, those areas of my life are happily happy and I am completely unconcerned. My stress has come in odd ways; little ways. Most notably by my hair; it's too short. I've always pictured myself having long hair on my 30th birthday. Too bad I forgot about that and cut it off.

As I look into extensions, I've been looking also at the decade mark and all it represents: past and present and future, dreams and failures and ideas; all wrapped into one (or, thirty). In one of today's slow moments, I let the reality of 30 sink in. I dwelled wholeheartedly on my teens and 20's, made mental notes, laughed cynically, hoped for change, and then in a rush of panic thought ohmygoshIamalmostforty. To squash the feeling, I ate a handful of mini eggs. It helped.

(this week's emotions taste like: chocolate)

In a way, we are always between two decades, and we could choose to live anew at any moment. But something about the mark, that zero after the number, makes these kinds of decades feel Official. If much is expected of 29, so much more is expected of 30. And 40, my god, I can't even think about it. I haven't published any books yet. I only have ten more years to write and publish all of the books.

Where are my mini eggs.

If my 20's were all talk,  my 30's should be action. When it comes right down to my recent work, it turns out I may not be a novelist after all. As of late, my characters have all been throwing tantrums and hiding in their rooms; I simply can't find them. And my plot? Yah, wow. Old molasses. But I press on, as we who feel we are artistic continue to do, and hope that someday my reclusive personality shows it's purpose. Perhaps this decade, or me in the midst, will do it.

I've spent much of my life either staring at or avoiding pieces of paper, and on occasion wrote a poem or two.
Dear 30-year-old-self: be so much cooler than that.

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