No matter how old you are, you still have those days where it looks like you played an entire soccer game and scored the winning goal with a header.
Showing posts with label Yourself. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Yourself. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Wordless Wednesday: Adulthood is Never Being Able to Avoid "6th Grade Soccer Hair"
No matter how old you are, you still have those days where it looks like you played an entire soccer game and scored the winning goal with a header.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
What's In a Name?
I can't get used to my friend Nicole's new married name. I have known the girl for over 20 years as Oldewurtel. (Pronounce it however you like, you still probably won't pronounce it right.) Now, suddenly, with a few words from a priest, the Social Security Administration, and the State of Arizona, she is a Carpenter.
As a person who has lived with a very strange last name her whole life also, I feel really more jealous that she doesn't have to struggle anymore with helping people understand. This is how the conversation usually goes for me:
ME: My last name is Stringfield.
THEM: Oh, yes. Springfield.
ME: No, STringfield. With a "T."
THEM: Oh, we don't have a Strongfield on the list.
ME: No. STRING, Like string cheese. FIELD, like a field of grass.
THEM: (sounding even more confused than ever and speaking hesitantly) Is that right? Stringfield?
ME: Yep. String and field, put together. Compound word.
THEM: Is it F-I-E-L-D or F-E-I-L-D?
ME: (silently)How do you think you spell "field"? (aloud) F-I-E-L-D.
THEM: Okay, you are on the list!
Nicole was always the friend who understood the struggles of having a difficult name. I could always count on someone understanding the annoyance. Now, she goes to the bank or a restaurant and says "Carpenter." That's it. Carpenter.
I don't have the heart to change her name yet. My phone still rings Nicole Oldewurtel when she calls. I don't think I have accepted that adulthood comes with many changes -- friends get married, and change their names. I need to reconcile myself with the fact that it is not identity theft.
I asked Nicole today how she felt about her new name. "I love it. I like the name and I like that it represents our family -- and so in that way it does really feel like my name. Oh, and it is easier."
I remember as a younger girl, I would practice my new signature over and over (as many younger girls do). I would write and rewrite the last name of the boy I liked in different styles. I would try to perfect it because, in my fantasy, the boy I liked and I would end up getting married and I would have to sign all my letters with the new last name.
Then, I ask, why do I feel so startled by Nicole's lucky new name?
Nicole's answer today made me realize that changing your name is not identity theft. That both her and I, the quirky girls with the strange names, would be just as unique whether our names be Carpenter or anything else.
And I had to just practice thinking about it this way. So, I literally did practice -- just like the younger-girl-Mara would have. Just to see what it would feel like when signing a new name was less fantasy and more probability. And my boyfriend's last name is Jones, and writing it as my signature suuurreee is easier -- and so much shorter at 5 letters!
I guess it wouldn't be half bad to change my name after all.
Cheers to friends who change their names and help you grow, my little Fickle Nickle.
Until then, this is Mara Stringfield, signing off.
P.S. Dearest BF, though I know you don't read my blog, just in case on this rare occasion you do, please don't be wierded out with the fact that I may or may not have been practicing writing your surname (and may or may not have published my practice on my blog). Trust me, girls do this. I think at all ages, girls do this. It just means I have a crush on you. :)
Friday, October 2, 2009
And We're Back: Good Friends and 24 Hour Taco
The great thing about adulthood is making great friends who inspire you (particularly in times of woe) to pull yourself up from your bootstraps and keep on livin'.
As is the case with my dear friend Morgan and this very blog. "Let's resurrect your blog!" she wrote to me in an email yesterday. Attached to the email was this guest blog post, and a bunch of pictures. Now that is a friend.
So, this morning, for the first time in many days, I logged in to my blog and I felt happy. I did not feel too overwhelmed by my recent heaviness of adulthood, even though nothing had really changed -- my grandma was still sick, my life was still stressful, my family's grocery store had still gone under. But now, finally, I had someone who offered to carry a bit of a load that is very important to me (my blog!) And now, finally, I accepted the help.
A few words of introduction to Morgan's fabulous post...
One thing that I love about Morgan's entry is that it forces the reader to really work to contextualize place and time. Her descriptions of a local taco stand (we in Southern California know there is one on every corner, a favorite in every neighborhood) and the vast Texas landscape are incredibly rich.
Morgan's fiance, Brant, is in the Navy and is currently deployed (as we will find out from her post). For Morgan, half a world away, the comfort of Brant's company (and the memory of one of their happiest times) is recalled again and again with a visit to her local taco shop. There is a kind of quiet tone to this entry, and all the details count to expertly lay out a real feeling of love, happiness, longing, and comfort.
24 Hour Taco
By Morgan Leahy
At 5:58 am, my alarm clock radio whines on and I get an earful of traffic, and an update on the border waits at Calexico and San Ysidro. I wrestle with the sheets and get out of bed to another perfect morning in San Diego.
I spend the day at work, quietly typing at my computer and performing many and varied administrative tasks of great and small importance. At 11:00 I can’t contain a grin as my cell phone starts to vibrate. I carry it out to the parking lot where I talk privately for the fastest half hour of my day. I hear about Brant’s day in Kuwait, how hot it is, how well his dive went, what he had for dinner. Normal things make the distance between us feel less apparent. I hear about a funny practical joke involving a Red Sox fan and a Yankees license plate holder. I tell him how I had trouble sleeping, and I return to the office to finish my day.
After work, I have to feed a friend’s fish. It is as uneventful as you would think and I lock up her house and start to walk home just before dark. The sun sinks slowly into the Pacific behind me, and I walk up the hill towards home.
I cross three blocks and see Roberto's 24 hour Taco Shop across the street, my favorite guilty pleasure since moving here a year ago. It's too bad I won't be able to tell Brant about this. When he left for his deployment four months ago, he made me promise that I would not, under any circumstance, tell him about any stop at Roberto’s. Before the road West, I hadn’t known the least thing about Mexican food. I guess it really started a little north of the Rio Grande.
"Thank you," the man at the convenience store had said when we finished paying for our assorted snacks and walked out into the hot Texas sun on the third afternoon of our drive, in May of last year. We climbed into the car. Somehow he had convinced me to drive, and we sped off fast enough to get pulled over right away, but not fast enough to get a ticket. I cried. He took the wheel. And we tried again.
We drove out of a Texas afternoon, through a Texas evening, and into a Texas night. I said I could see for miles and I thought I was the first person to ever feel that way. We had the only car on the road, and gas stations, not to mention any traces of communities, spread further and further apart. We held hands in the car and stayed about as quiet as we had been the whole trip. We had no plans or expectations of where we would sleep that night, or how far we would drive.
"Gracias," The cashier at Roberto's said to me as I gave him a handful of coins, "Hot Sauce?"
"Si, roja por favor."
"Tienes un novio?"
"Si. You ask me every time"
"Do you like him?"
"Yes. Still do."
I grab the sweating plastic to-go bag with my heavy burrito inside and turn again towards home. It's almost dark.
Somewhere in the West Texas desert, we had turned at an exit that had signs for food and gas when it started to feel like we were playing chicken with the gas gauge. Driving up to a stop sign at the first intersection, we looked around and saw nothing, only the hills covered with a darkness so soft I wanted to wrap it around me. Ahead, a gas station sat on a small hill. It was the only light for miles.
We pulled into the parking lot, filled the tank, and walked inside the convenience store. An older man stood behind the main cash register and a young girl stood behind another counter that had hot food for sale. It was late, maybe 3am, so there wasn't much food left and I didn't recognize anything in the case. This was perhaps the third time I had eaten Mexican food before then, so I pointed to what turned out to be a chili relleno and hoped I would like it.
Stretching out on the grass near the curb with our dinner, I laughed as I looked at Brant. We had been on the road for three days, and the scenery, the food, and the company filled me with excitement. I felt like we were just starting out, and we were.
I arrive at my gate just as the last bit of sun is dipping below the Ocean. I take a seat on the front porch and eat part of the burrito, still reminiscing about our cross county drive. Then I step inside to email Brant.
***
And, for all those who have been asking, I will still put up the entry from Meghan's wedding, as I teased you with about a month ago.
In the mean time, please show our first Guest Blogger some love! What did you take from her entry? What was striking? Do you have a favorite food that transports you somewhere great? For me, it's hot jamon y queso sandwiches (con huevos). When I studied abroad in Madrid (on a budget so we had to stick with cheap, simple food), my dear roommate would make us these sandwiches for dinner at least 3 times a week. At the time, in our little apartment off of the purple metro line, nothing ever tasted so good...
Thanks Morgan!
We can't wait to hear more from you!
As is the case with my dear friend Morgan and this very blog. "Let's resurrect your blog!" she wrote to me in an email yesterday. Attached to the email was this guest blog post, and a bunch of pictures. Now that is a friend.
So, this morning, for the first time in many days, I logged in to my blog and I felt happy. I did not feel too overwhelmed by my recent heaviness of adulthood, even though nothing had really changed -- my grandma was still sick, my life was still stressful, my family's grocery store had still gone under. But now, finally, I had someone who offered to carry a bit of a load that is very important to me (my blog!) And now, finally, I accepted the help.
A few words of introduction to Morgan's fabulous post...
One thing that I love about Morgan's entry is that it forces the reader to really work to contextualize place and time. Her descriptions of a local taco stand (we in Southern California know there is one on every corner, a favorite in every neighborhood) and the vast Texas landscape are incredibly rich.
Morgan's fiance, Brant, is in the Navy and is currently deployed (as we will find out from her post). For Morgan, half a world away, the comfort of Brant's company (and the memory of one of their happiest times) is recalled again and again with a visit to her local taco shop. There is a kind of quiet tone to this entry, and all the details count to expertly lay out a real feeling of love, happiness, longing, and comfort.
24 Hour Taco
By Morgan Leahy
At 5:58 am, my alarm clock radio whines on and I get an earful of traffic, and an update on the border waits at Calexico and San Ysidro. I wrestle with the sheets and get out of bed to another perfect morning in San Diego.
I spend the day at work, quietly typing at my computer and performing many and varied administrative tasks of great and small importance. At 11:00 I can’t contain a grin as my cell phone starts to vibrate. I carry it out to the parking lot where I talk privately for the fastest half hour of my day. I hear about Brant’s day in Kuwait, how hot it is, how well his dive went, what he had for dinner. Normal things make the distance between us feel less apparent. I hear about a funny practical joke involving a Red Sox fan and a Yankees license plate holder. I tell him how I had trouble sleeping, and I return to the office to finish my day.
After work, I have to feed a friend’s fish. It is as uneventful as you would think and I lock up her house and start to walk home just before dark. The sun sinks slowly into the Pacific behind me, and I walk up the hill towards home.
I cross three blocks and see Roberto's 24 hour Taco Shop across the street, my favorite guilty pleasure since moving here a year ago. It's too bad I won't be able to tell Brant about this. When he left for his deployment four months ago, he made me promise that I would not, under any circumstance, tell him about any stop at Roberto’s. Before the road West, I hadn’t known the least thing about Mexican food. I guess it really started a little north of the Rio Grande.
"Thank you," the man at the convenience store had said when we finished paying for our assorted snacks and walked out into the hot Texas sun on the third afternoon of our drive, in May of last year. We climbed into the car. Somehow he had convinced me to drive, and we sped off fast enough to get pulled over right away, but not fast enough to get a ticket. I cried. He took the wheel. And we tried again.
We drove out of a Texas afternoon, through a Texas evening, and into a Texas night. I said I could see for miles and I thought I was the first person to ever feel that way. We had the only car on the road, and gas stations, not to mention any traces of communities, spread further and further apart. We held hands in the car and stayed about as quiet as we had been the whole trip. We had no plans or expectations of where we would sleep that night, or how far we would drive.
"Gracias," The cashier at Roberto's said to me as I gave him a handful of coins, "Hot Sauce?"
"Si, roja por favor."
"Tienes un novio?"
"Si. You ask me every time"
"Do you like him?"
"Yes. Still do."
I grab the sweating plastic to-go bag with my heavy burrito inside and turn again towards home. It's almost dark.
Somewhere in the West Texas desert, we had turned at an exit that had signs for food and gas when it started to feel like we were playing chicken with the gas gauge. Driving up to a stop sign at the first intersection, we looked around and saw nothing, only the hills covered with a darkness so soft I wanted to wrap it around me. Ahead, a gas station sat on a small hill. It was the only light for miles.
We pulled into the parking lot, filled the tank, and walked inside the convenience store. An older man stood behind the main cash register and a young girl stood behind another counter that had hot food for sale. It was late, maybe 3am, so there wasn't much food left and I didn't recognize anything in the case. This was perhaps the third time I had eaten Mexican food before then, so I pointed to what turned out to be a chili relleno and hoped I would like it.
Stretching out on the grass near the curb with our dinner, I laughed as I looked at Brant. We had been on the road for three days, and the scenery, the food, and the company filled me with excitement. I felt like we were just starting out, and we were.
I arrive at my gate just as the last bit of sun is dipping below the Ocean. I take a seat on the front porch and eat part of the burrito, still reminiscing about our cross county drive. Then I step inside to email Brant.
And, for all those who have been asking, I will still put up the entry from Meghan's wedding, as I teased you with about a month ago.
In the mean time, please show our first Guest Blogger some love! What did you take from her entry? What was striking? Do you have a favorite food that transports you somewhere great? For me, it's hot jamon y queso sandwiches (con huevos). When I studied abroad in Madrid (on a budget so we had to stick with cheap, simple food), my dear roommate would make us these sandwiches for dinner at least 3 times a week. At the time, in our little apartment off of the purple metro line, nothing ever tasted so good...
Thanks Morgan!
We can't wait to hear more from you!
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
A Mark of Adulthood
Welcome to my life, tattoo
I'm a man now, thanks to you
I expect I'll regret you
But the skin graft man won't get you
You'll be there when I die,
Tattoo.
- The Who
My good friend Emily's very conservative 52-year-old mom hates tattoos. Emily tells me that whenever her mom sees someone with a tattoo she makes some kind of comment about how much she dislikes them. "Why would anyone ever get a tattoo?" she says, in a tone of disgust. (Mind you, she is a very nice woman, she just has a strong aversion to tattoos.)
I am assuming the generation gap contributes to her hate of tattoos. I feel like (and I could be way off on this -- let me know if you think otherwise) that 30-50+ years ago tattoos were generally associated with ruffians, military men, and jailbirds. Certainly, they were not associated with "civilized" young ladies, or "refined" business people.
In 2009, tattoos have become accepted as a form of artistic expression. In fact, some tattoo artists complete years of study to perfect their craft. But aside from tattoos being "more accepted" as a form of expression, let's go back to Emily's mom's question and ask, Why would anyone ever get a tattoo?
It is too simple to merely answer this question with: "It is a form of expression." Really, everything is "a form of expression" -- speaking, moving, laughing, drawing, writing, singing, hairstyles, fashion, etc.
What is it that compels us to alter our body so permanently? To endure pain, often for hours, to yield an immutable image?
I think we need some pictures to really try to probe this question -- analysis follows.
The first picture (below) is of my friend Danna. She recently got a tattoo (still not complete -- it will take a total of three sittings) of a vine of morning glories on her back. I won't go into the reasons why she chose it (she promises to blog that story for you later), but what I will tell you is she is 28, well educated, articulate, and works at a good corporate job. She is hardly a ruffian.
I'm a man now, thanks to you
I expect I'll regret you
But the skin graft man won't get you
You'll be there when I die,
Tattoo.
- The Who
My good friend Emily's very conservative 52-year-old mom hates tattoos. Emily tells me that whenever her mom sees someone with a tattoo she makes some kind of comment about how much she dislikes them. "Why would anyone ever get a tattoo?" she says, in a tone of disgust. (Mind you, she is a very nice woman, she just has a strong aversion to tattoos.)
I am assuming the generation gap contributes to her hate of tattoos. I feel like (and I could be way off on this -- let me know if you think otherwise) that 30-50+ years ago tattoos were generally associated with ruffians, military men, and jailbirds. Certainly, they were not associated with "civilized" young ladies, or "refined" business people.
In 2009, tattoos have become accepted as a form of artistic expression. In fact, some tattoo artists complete years of study to perfect their craft. But aside from tattoos being "more accepted" as a form of expression, let's go back to Emily's mom's question and ask, Why would anyone ever get a tattoo?
It is too simple to merely answer this question with: "It is a form of expression." Really, everything is "a form of expression" -- speaking, moving, laughing, drawing, writing, singing, hairstyles, fashion, etc.
What is it that compels us to alter our body so permanently? To endure pain, often for hours, to yield an immutable image?
I think we need some pictures to really try to probe this question -- analysis follows.
The first picture (below) is of my friend Danna. She recently got a tattoo (still not complete -- it will take a total of three sittings) of a vine of morning glories on her back. I won't go into the reasons why she chose it (she promises to blog that story for you later), but what I will tell you is she is 28, well educated, articulate, and works at a good corporate job. She is hardly a ruffian.
Here are a few more pictures of Danna at her second sitting as she is getting some color added.
Here is a really good shot of the detail.
What an awesome tattoo! I can't wait to post the completed work of art once she goes for her final sitting in two weeks.
The second tattoo I want us to look at is from my friend Michael, an M.D. at Stanford. Next time you visit your doctor, imagine what might be under his/or her clothes. This might be the last image you would picture on the back of your straight-laced doc.
Isn't that tattoo incredible? I love the detail in the Buddha and the demon, contrasted with the simple, clean lines of the wheel.
So, what can we make of these kinds of "expressions"?
In our search for the elusive adulthood, I think we can view tattoos as a metaphor. Sometimes "adulthood" means breaking out of our suit and ties, our doctor's coats, our high heel work pumps, and making this beautiful, indelible mark on our own existence -- literally.
Perhaps our generation is on to something really important.
We are unafraid of the moment. We embrace the permanence of tattoos, perhaps because we are wiser than we know. For, after all, life is short -- and we must savor every moment. We must feel it all, pleasure and pain. And ultimately, we know too, the tattoo is not permanent at all: our body is only a vessel. Our ashes will one day blow away, our body will one day fully decay.
But the life we lived, wasn't it grand? And maybe the tattoo is just a reminder to live in the moment, to cherish the past, to feel pain, scar, and heal. And when we are old and grey, and our tattoos are wrinkled, faded, or stretched, they will serve to remind us that we were once brave, bold, and uninhibited, and we lived every moment as our last.
What do you think? Do you love or hate tattoos? Do you have any tattoos - why or why not? Can you answer Emily's mom's question? Let's discuss in the comments.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
'Tis the Season to be...Wed?
Did I mention so many of my friends are engaged? In fact, another of my dearest friends got engaged last weekend. I am glad I have this blog, because I think this is one of those things that many people can relate to in some way or another. I call it, Rites of Passage In Which You Are Not Included.
I think we get used to achieving rites of passages with our peers. You get your period about the same time as your friends (which is important so you can share some woman-stories and information, not just glean all your information from Judy Blume's, Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret.) You go into high school about the same time as your peers, you graduate high school at the same time as your peers, you go off to college, you graduate college, you get a "real" job and all your friends are getting "real" jobs too, and you...get married around the same time?
Maybe that is why I feel left behind. Granted, I am not in any hurry to get married, but I can't help but feel left behind among the talk of wedding gowns and flower colors.
And then the inevitable question from random people, family members, friends:
"What about you and your boyfriend?"
"What about it?"
"When will you be getting married?"
"Uh, you know. We are just takin' our time right now and enjoying it."
Why do I feel like I need to legitimize my relationship status? Probably because I am the one who is left behind in this epic rite of passage. And it is not that I feel left behind in my relationship, but more left behind by my friends. Kinda like if someone had told me when I was 17 that I couldn't graduate high school for another year or two, and all my friends got to go off to exciting post-high school adventures. Yeah. That is exactly how I feel: like I am sitting in a math class, looking out the window, watching my friends pack for college (yes...it is a reverie: obviously they would not be packing RIGHT in front of my classroom window. And I did graduate high school on time, I might add -- with no thanks to my poor math grades.)
I just kind of feel...quiet. Happy for them but quiet inside because I feel my dearest friends will be on to new things. New "married" things. And I will still be quietly here.
What about you guys out there? Do you, or did you, ever feel like this?
The good news about all my friends weddings is that I will be able to start a new topic to file things on our blog: weddings! That means anything wedding you want to share, talk about, etc, send my way! Pictures are especially welcome.
To start off this new "file" in the blog, I am posting a picture of my dear friend, Morgan (also a highly anticipated guest blogger, hopefully!) who is pretty much about the coolest girl around.
Morgan is a cross between a indie fashionista and a hippie, if you can wrap your head around that one. She is a New Jersey girl, transplanted to the beach of San Diego (not too shabby) and is engaged to a handsome fellow named Brant. Brant is in the Navy and is currently deployed in Kuwait. He works for the Navy E.O.D. and basically blows up bombs all day, but more on that later.
Brant proposed to Morgan with this stunning sapphire and diamond ring. The best thing about this ring (aside from that it is beautiful) is that it features conflict-free, ethically sourced, gemstones. Morgan felt strongly about not supporting the proliferation of blood diamonds, and she has always loved sapphires. Here is a picture of the loveliness:
To read more about conflict diamonds, and why it is so important to support purchases of conflict-free gemstones, check out what the U.N. has to say: Conflict Diamonds
And here is an interesting tidbit: A French lady who I used to work with had a wedding ring that was also not a diamond. She told me that diamonds were considered an "American" thing (picture a very thick French accent with a highly pejorative undertone)and in Europe no one really cared for diamonds as they were not as rare as their high prices would lead you to believe (the rareness vs. price is true, not just a cultural bias.) In fact, she even referred to them as "common."
What do you think? To diamond or not to diamond? Did you know about conflict diamonds and now that you do will you think twice before purchasing a diamond? Lots to talk about today, folks! Sound off in the comments.
(The lovely Gatsby-esque wedding picture is via OnceWed.com, and the others are courtesy of Miss Morgan the Magnificent.)
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
All Signs Point to Yes.
How do you know when you have reached that ever-elusive "adulthood"? I thought it was when I was 18 years old: adventurous, independent for the first time. Smoking cigarettes on the steps outside my dorm, my parents thousands of miles away, with my newly pierced tongue. "This must be it," I thought to myself. At 19 years old, my parents got divorced and I was shattered. Was this actually adulthood? Feeling the ache of a guilded and broken childhood every day, and having the courage and the strength to get myself out of bed each morning, go to class, go to my waitressing job, study, smoke cigarettes outside my dorm, and do it again tomorrow without completely unraveling. "This must be it," I thought to myself.
At 20 years old, I was living back at home with my mother. I made a new "adult" life in my childhood room, removing pictures of my childhood heroes and replacing them with pictures of my friends and I smoking cigarettes outside the dorm. "That must have been adulthood," I thought as I looked fondly at the pictures. Certainly, I wasn't necessarily happy back at college, but it reminded me of a time when I felt free, before the divorce, before the bitter realization that even in times of hardship, you have to pick yourself up (and there is no one that will do it for you!) and keep taking care of yourself.
At 21 years old, I knew I had to be there. "THIiiissss must be it, I really just didn't know it before," I thought to myself. Now that I am 21, I can drink legally -- it has opened my whole life to a new world of legal socialization. Going to bars, meeting boys at bars, this has to be it.
At 26 years old, I graduated college. After an extended stint at community college, I finally transferred to a small, private university and graduated as the oldest person in my class (I thought so at least.) I got a job right after college, and a glamorous one at that. I got to travel to New York frequently, I got to attend fancy parties. I remember getting off the plane at JFK airport on my first official business trip. I had intended to take a taxi into the city, but a nice gentleman at the taxi queue quickly assured me that he would take me into the city for "a good price" in his town car. I sat comforably in the dark leather seats and as I watched the city lights descend upon me, I thought, "Ah ha! So THIS is it! I have finally made it. And boy, does it feel good to be here." Then the driver told me I owed him $115. After a short argument in which the man told me he would call the police if I didn't "pay up", I tearily handed him the money. As I watched him speed away I thought (for I was a little wiser by now and knew there were things I still needed to learn), "Maybe this is not it. Maybe I am not really here yet. But when will I know?"
Now I am 28 years old. I feel like I should be here by now: four of my dearest friends are engaged, another of my dearest friends is well on her way to engagement (they have picked out the ring! Squealll!), I have a job that I wake up for every day (no sleeping through class anymore or skipping out on my waitressing shifts like the old days), I pay bills (a lot of bills!), I live with my boyfriend (who I adore), and my beau and I are currently in the market to buy a house. More terrifyingly, sometimes I see babies and I think for a split-second, "Aww! I want one of those soon..." Then I snap out of it. I'm not there quite yet.
Still, all of these things seem to be rites of passage to adulthood. I think I would feel pretty "adult" if I bought a house with my boyfriend. Obviously my friends feel "adult-enough" to decide to get married. And that new-found affection for children in general? Yeah, I would say that is pretty "adult." But if I have learned anything from my life in the last 10 years it is that being an "adult" isn't always what it seems, or what it is cracked up to be. How can we actually be an "adult" if we don't even know how to handle these rites of passage? I mean, could I really conceptualize birthing a child through my vagina (yes, I said vagina, I think that is part of being an adult?) and then raising the child for the rest of my life? And what about this house that I am going to buy? The economy is in the crapper, what if I can't keep up with my hefty mortgage payments? And as a long-time renter, can I really imagine putting MOST of my earnings into my mortgage payment? And marriage: I am already in a partnership. Am I less "adult" if I don't feel like getting married? Certainly, most would say "No. No. To each their own." But really, getting married has its own ethos; it legitimizes your relationship somehow. For some reason, to be a married couple carries more weight then saying "oh yes, this is my boyfriend." (That is also why getting married is such an important issue to gay people, and why should they be denied that right? But more on that another time.)
So, dear readers, how do we know we "have made it"? I wish there were sign posts along the way to help us figure it out: "This Way!" or "One Way Only (you're on the right track)". Like if you are running a long race and you have a team of people on the sidelines cheering for you, "You are almost there! Just one more little hill!" That really does make the race easier. I would be happy with even a little light-bulb moment "ding! ding! ding! You made it!" Just something tangible that I could savor for a single minute so I could breathe a sigh of relief that I finally got there.
But maybe there is no sign, no moment. Maybe it just sneaks up on you, sits down, and settles in, so subtle and so sure that it lingers with you for days, months, or even years, until suddenly you realize you never needed a sign. You realize that you have been here for a very long time after all, and you are actually doing pretty well for a gal not having any directions. I can imagine this would feel like an incredible sense of completion, pride, strength, and wisdom. I'm still watching and wondering...
Welcome to Adulthood.
At 20 years old, I was living back at home with my mother. I made a new "adult" life in my childhood room, removing pictures of my childhood heroes and replacing them with pictures of my friends and I smoking cigarettes outside the dorm. "That must have been adulthood," I thought as I looked fondly at the pictures. Certainly, I wasn't necessarily happy back at college, but it reminded me of a time when I felt free, before the divorce, before the bitter realization that even in times of hardship, you have to pick yourself up (and there is no one that will do it for you!) and keep taking care of yourself.
At 21 years old, I knew I had to be there. "THIiiissss must be it, I really just didn't know it before," I thought to myself. Now that I am 21, I can drink legally -- it has opened my whole life to a new world of legal socialization. Going to bars, meeting boys at bars, this has to be it.
At 26 years old, I graduated college. After an extended stint at community college, I finally transferred to a small, private university and graduated as the oldest person in my class (I thought so at least.) I got a job right after college, and a glamorous one at that. I got to travel to New York frequently, I got to attend fancy parties. I remember getting off the plane at JFK airport on my first official business trip. I had intended to take a taxi into the city, but a nice gentleman at the taxi queue quickly assured me that he would take me into the city for "a good price" in his town car. I sat comforably in the dark leather seats and as I watched the city lights descend upon me, I thought, "Ah ha! So THIS is it! I have finally made it. And boy, does it feel good to be here." Then the driver told me I owed him $115. After a short argument in which the man told me he would call the police if I didn't "pay up", I tearily handed him the money. As I watched him speed away I thought (for I was a little wiser by now and knew there were things I still needed to learn), "Maybe this is not it. Maybe I am not really here yet. But when will I know?"
Now I am 28 years old. I feel like I should be here by now: four of my dearest friends are engaged, another of my dearest friends is well on her way to engagement (they have picked out the ring! Squealll!), I have a job that I wake up for every day (no sleeping through class anymore or skipping out on my waitressing shifts like the old days), I pay bills (a lot of bills!), I live with my boyfriend (who I adore), and my beau and I are currently in the market to buy a house. More terrifyingly, sometimes I see babies and I think for a split-second, "Aww! I want one of those soon..." Then I snap out of it. I'm not there quite yet.
Still, all of these things seem to be rites of passage to adulthood. I think I would feel pretty "adult" if I bought a house with my boyfriend. Obviously my friends feel "adult-enough" to decide to get married. And that new-found affection for children in general? Yeah, I would say that is pretty "adult." But if I have learned anything from my life in the last 10 years it is that being an "adult" isn't always what it seems, or what it is cracked up to be. How can we actually be an "adult" if we don't even know how to handle these rites of passage? I mean, could I really conceptualize birthing a child through my vagina (yes, I said vagina, I think that is part of being an adult?) and then raising the child for the rest of my life? And what about this house that I am going to buy? The economy is in the crapper, what if I can't keep up with my hefty mortgage payments? And as a long-time renter, can I really imagine putting MOST of my earnings into my mortgage payment? And marriage: I am already in a partnership. Am I less "adult" if I don't feel like getting married? Certainly, most would say "No. No. To each their own." But really, getting married has its own ethos; it legitimizes your relationship somehow. For some reason, to be a married couple carries more weight then saying "oh yes, this is my boyfriend." (That is also why getting married is such an important issue to gay people, and why should they be denied that right? But more on that another time.)
So, dear readers, how do we know we "have made it"? I wish there were sign posts along the way to help us figure it out: "This Way!" or "One Way Only (you're on the right track)". Like if you are running a long race and you have a team of people on the sidelines cheering for you, "You are almost there! Just one more little hill!" That really does make the race easier. I would be happy with even a little light-bulb moment "ding! ding! ding! You made it!" Just something tangible that I could savor for a single minute so I could breathe a sigh of relief that I finally got there.
But maybe there is no sign, no moment. Maybe it just sneaks up on you, sits down, and settles in, so subtle and so sure that it lingers with you for days, months, or even years, until suddenly you realize you never needed a sign. You realize that you have been here for a very long time after all, and you are actually doing pretty well for a gal not having any directions. I can imagine this would feel like an incredible sense of completion, pride, strength, and wisdom. I'm still watching and wondering...
Welcome to Adulthood.
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