Some thoughts on turning 32
First of all, ever since I turned like 26 or 27 or something, I've been having a really hard time keeping track of how old I am. When I turned 29, I was somehow convinced that I was 30--all of that baseless, media-induced dread about 30 somehow got inside, and 29 just seemed like a pointless, brief layover of a number, so all of my tumult happened a year early. (I am prone to anticipatory anxiety.) So then actually turning 30 was a very serene experience; I felt happy and sort of relieved to be on the other side. I have loved my time in this decade. I spent a lot of energy in my 20s spinning my wheels. Some people might feel like getting married or starting a family are the things that make the wheels stop spinning, the signals that mean the crossing over (from instability and uncertainty into a kind of safety) has occurred. I didn't get married to feel "safe." If anything, it was almost the opposite: I got married to have adventures. Love is really the least safe activity, I think. We keep growing and, I don't know, molting together, and apart.
Time for a list because I am getting off track:
1. Thanks to my sister, I resolutely believe in even numbers more than odd. So 32 feels, by that standard, nicer than 31.
2. Last year, I was newly home from the hospital on my birthday, and the only thing "birthday" meant to me was Beatrice. Still there was a celebration, for me, or for the person who was turning 31, who was me, who was having a very out-of-body experience. I'd already received so much attention, and now there was this human who would receive so much attention, that opening presents and eating cake felt gratuitous, almost embarrassing.
3. In general I am filled with hope. This is, I'm learning, some fundamental part of my character--I hope. Back in September when I got the horrible flu, I spent about two weeks completely devoid of hope, and it was maybe the most frightened I've ever been. I love new mornings and new weeks and new years, for how they automatically refresh the hope that has dwindled, and give the sense that however badly we fucked up last time around, this time, we will do better. We will do great.
4. I have an earnest desire to live in another country for a while. This has been building over the past year.
5. I am at peace with my vanity, I think. I feel generally cheerful about how I look. I believe I am an odd-looking person with odd features that I have grown fond of. I am happy and grateful that I did not grow up "beautiful." I feel as if I have earned the right to play about with clothes and makeup, and I enjoy doing this.
6. For the most part, I have stopped comparing myself to other people and feeling covetous. I am a person of many jealousies, but they are of a fiercely intimate sort. I long for many, many things, but they are self-designed, ambitions that I've had for many years, that shift slightly in character but mostly stay intact. When I put them in concrete terms, they sound ridiculous, impossible, so I usually don't. They just hover around my life and become visible when I am alone and quiet--like stars in the daytime and then stars at night--and they feel so reachable and amazing, and just looking at them fills me with something wild. And then I feel: I need to act! I need to do more! I'll never get there unless...! But then they blink out and I take a deep breath and go about my life, but perhaps with a little more intensity. I think this is at least partly what I mean when I talk about hope.
7. I thought for a while that there was a deep chasm between my cynicism and my tenderness. I'm beginning to think, though, that these things work in concert.
8. I used to think about myself all the time, and I definitely still think about myself a lot, but I feel that a rather riotous change has occurred, like a great coating of ectoplasm has been pulled away from my most primordial layer, deafening suction sound and all: these days, I think about love. All the time.
9. I want to get better at it. My nicer parts are getting nicer, I think, but my horrible parts might be getting more horrible also. On the other hand, I think that my opinions about things are getting stronger, but my ability to keep them inside is also getting stronger. I used to consider keeping things inside as some form of cowardice, which of course it can be. But it can also be a form of love.
10. I say my prayers. I pray for good judgment. I pray for more love.
11. I love reading US Weekly, etc., at the gym and if I get my nails done, but I have stopped spending time on the corresponding websites. No real statement to make about that--one day, I just sort of stopped. My obsession with famous people is now a bit more limited to people writing books and such, or people doing other small things with great focus and at least the semblance of honesty, people whose lives have been marred and inconvenienced with some need to make art.
I think eleven is plenty. To practice: "I am 32." Thirty-two. Yes. Good.
Time for a list because I am getting off track:
1. Thanks to my sister, I resolutely believe in even numbers more than odd. So 32 feels, by that standard, nicer than 31.
2. Last year, I was newly home from the hospital on my birthday, and the only thing "birthday" meant to me was Beatrice. Still there was a celebration, for me, or for the person who was turning 31, who was me, who was having a very out-of-body experience. I'd already received so much attention, and now there was this human who would receive so much attention, that opening presents and eating cake felt gratuitous, almost embarrassing.
3. In general I am filled with hope. This is, I'm learning, some fundamental part of my character--I hope. Back in September when I got the horrible flu, I spent about two weeks completely devoid of hope, and it was maybe the most frightened I've ever been. I love new mornings and new weeks and new years, for how they automatically refresh the hope that has dwindled, and give the sense that however badly we fucked up last time around, this time, we will do better. We will do great.
4. I have an earnest desire to live in another country for a while. This has been building over the past year.
5. I am at peace with my vanity, I think. I feel generally cheerful about how I look. I believe I am an odd-looking person with odd features that I have grown fond of. I am happy and grateful that I did not grow up "beautiful." I feel as if I have earned the right to play about with clothes and makeup, and I enjoy doing this.
6. For the most part, I have stopped comparing myself to other people and feeling covetous. I am a person of many jealousies, but they are of a fiercely intimate sort. I long for many, many things, but they are self-designed, ambitions that I've had for many years, that shift slightly in character but mostly stay intact. When I put them in concrete terms, they sound ridiculous, impossible, so I usually don't. They just hover around my life and become visible when I am alone and quiet--like stars in the daytime and then stars at night--and they feel so reachable and amazing, and just looking at them fills me with something wild. And then I feel: I need to act! I need to do more! I'll never get there unless...! But then they blink out and I take a deep breath and go about my life, but perhaps with a little more intensity. I think this is at least partly what I mean when I talk about hope.
7. I thought for a while that there was a deep chasm between my cynicism and my tenderness. I'm beginning to think, though, that these things work in concert.
8. I used to think about myself all the time, and I definitely still think about myself a lot, but I feel that a rather riotous change has occurred, like a great coating of ectoplasm has been pulled away from my most primordial layer, deafening suction sound and all: these days, I think about love. All the time.
9. I want to get better at it. My nicer parts are getting nicer, I think, but my horrible parts might be getting more horrible also. On the other hand, I think that my opinions about things are getting stronger, but my ability to keep them inside is also getting stronger. I used to consider keeping things inside as some form of cowardice, which of course it can be. But it can also be a form of love.
10. I say my prayers. I pray for good judgment. I pray for more love.
11. I love reading US Weekly, etc., at the gym and if I get my nails done, but I have stopped spending time on the corresponding websites. No real statement to make about that--one day, I just sort of stopped. My obsession with famous people is now a bit more limited to people writing books and such, or people doing other small things with great focus and at least the semblance of honesty, people whose lives have been marred and inconvenienced with some need to make art.
I think eleven is plenty. To practice: "I am 32." Thirty-two. Yes. Good.
3 Comments:
I love this post.
I feel some kind of ability to relate to all of the points you make even though I don't really know you and havent yet 'been there'.
On a longer note:
This topic was funny to me that this was your blog topic, because just the other day someone at work was having her birthday. I asked how old she was turning and she laughed and said '28!' -- which it was kind of obvious she was not turning 28, I turned to my other co-worker with the words 'twenty eight' repeating in my head and said ...
'wait am I 28? I thought I was 27 am I 28!??'
she laughed at me but I was being totally serious. I dont know if its pregnancy brain forgetfulness or if I have lost track of time or lost track of who I am.. maybe all of these things but I was honestly a little shocked to think of myself and think of my age in relation to one another for about five minutes.
** sorry my longer note is completely haywire-esque-ly written!
thanks, ellen, for reading, and for your comments. (not haywire, at least not to me.) pregnancy-brain, for me, did include that constant reckoning of/with identity...i hope you and the gizmodo are well, xo.
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