Hello friends! I hope you all survived your Mondays. I am currently lying in my bed determining the lesser of two evils: sweltering heat or creepy moths flocking into my bedroom? Currently the moths have the upper hand because I am tired of being so sticky. Some nocturnal bird is raising a ruckus nearby, recounting all the dreams she had today. I wish I had slept all day. Mostly because I’m headed to Missoula this Friday and the anticipation may cause spontaneous implosion. Reasons to visit Missoula: baby pug puppies, sitting by the river, Taco del Sol and of course that-one-thing that I’m very excited about but don’t want to jinx or scare away (sorry guys, I promise someday you’ll know if you don’t already). Right now happiness feels like a unicorn. Something mythical and rare. Something you have to approach slowly with your eyes averted and your hand outstretched, palm up. Happiness likes sugar cubes and glitter bombs.
Well, it appears to be mid-July already. I’ve been a 23-year old for approximately eight months, and I’m finally realizing the many subtle ways this particular milestone has changed me. I vaguely remember my birthday, telling my friends at the bar/anyone within a 2 mile radius that 23 is my lucky number, so this had to be a lucky year. Around that time my life fell into shambles. Some of you know the sequence of events leading to my Missoula exodus. Those of you who don’t know will once I manage to organize those fractured memories into coherent sentences. Suffice it to say, if I could have burned the entire town down in one final act of arson I probably would have.
A few of the changes I’ve noticed since turning 23:
· My definition of Friday night. Or for that matter my definition of “weekend”. Weekend used to mean pre-gaming at someone’s house, getting tanked downtown, passing out wherever you ended up and waking up to consume greasy breakfast and swap fuzzy memories. Weekends generally started on Thursday night and didn’t end until your swollen, exhausted hangover was rolling out of bed for work Monday morning. Weekends included Bloody Mary breakfasts and 2am Taco Bell dinners and minimal sleep. 23 has changed all that. For example, this past Friday Gay and I dragged her friends around searching for all the hoppin’ lesbian hangouts. But by midnight/my fourth soda water I was ready to crawl into bed. Also, we arrived at Weird Bar approximately one year too late…
· My metabolism. Ok, to be fair 23 might not be entirely to blame for this. Post-op I went from running 15 miles a week to zero and my body took it pretty hard. But I do believe my metabolism tanked overnight on November 27th, 2011. My old affinity for drive-thru food has fallen by the wayside. Lucy, remember the days when I could eat your breakfast and my own? No more. I feel like I gain 5lbs even looking at a chicken supreme chalupa. I get indigestion watching Food Network.
My ability/desire to drink beer. I have one particularly vivid memory of sitting at a friend’s pool party and drinking an entire 12 pack of PBR without batting an eye. Not to mention the summer Friend, TR and I drank a growler of beer every night for a week. I still enjoy a good microbrew, but they absolutely annihilate me. Even after one beer I wake up the next morning feeling as though I will give birth to a hoppy alien freakchild. My post-collegiate binge drinking days have been displaced by biology. 23 says no more.
· My narcolepsy. Any of you who know me understand my sleep capabilities. I’ve been known to pass out anywhere and everywhere. During classes, on couches, in random hallways, airports, buses, theme parks, in the backseats of cars, occasionally even in the driver seat of cars… I’ve always been able to promptly drift into a coma approximately 7 seconds after my head touches the pillow. But since turning 23 my days of taking sleep for granted came to a screeching halt. I’ve got all of these thoughts now! Like what will I do without health insurance? How am I going to pay that bill? Is there any way I haven’t discovered to cook rice and beans? I spend an inordinate amount of time processing once I turn off my light. My bedside wolf-patterned touch-light to be more precise. 23 brought a lot of changes and a lot of upheaval. I am still sifting through the debris and feeling out the new fault lines, the places where my plans feel the most fragile.
So the first eight months of lucky #23 haven’t been exactly what I expected. But really, is anything good ever what we expect? I’m starting to believe part of this whole Growing Up thing is taking each moment at face value. Not every experience needs to be qualified as positive or negative, so long as you are experiencing it openly and honestly. Someone I adore recently told me “Happiness is not a sustainable emotion”. Which sounds uber pessimistic at face value. But she means that happiness is a catch-22. When you spend every waking moment trying to be happy, it's hard to actually experience happiness. When I’m constantly holding my life to the standard of Happiness, I forget to fully immerse myself in them. Like leaving my hometown and worrying so much about how I’ll feel that I forget to feel at all. Happiness seems to be like missing car keys. You won’t find it until you stop desperately tearing around searching for it.
You guys, it’s been a strange and tragic and wonderful and devastating and magical year. Today, lying here in my Ikea bed in my yellow room in Portland, I feel like everything will be ok. We’re all going to be ok. Lucy, only three more sleeps!
I love you all.
-b
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