A Change of Time

People don't usually consider 24 a particularly noteworthy year. Think about it: when you turn 24, you can already drive, vote, enlist, drink, you've graduated from college if you went, you probably already started grad school if you're going. Maybe you get married or something. There's no hard and fast milestone that makes people say, "Wow, 24 is coming up! You must be so excited!!!!" It's just another candle on the cake, another trip around the sun.

Why am I hating on 24 so much? Simple: I'm not. Age 24 was anything but boring for me. I've put myself through a lot of crazy and wonderful shifts in my life, but 24 seemed to win the lottery for cramming as many as possible in 1 year. Plus, I'm turning 25 tomorrow, so I'm feeling introspective. Deal with it or quit reading.

When I had only 5 days left in 23, my dad got into the driver's seat of my sister's van which was packed to maximum capacity with all of my possessions save one overnight bag. I got into the driver's seat of my Subaru along with my mom, sister, 18 month old nephew, and our overnight bags. Thus began the 18 hour drive to Syracuse as well as my "grown up" life.

I know at first glance 24 isn't particularly exceptional. But it was pretty monumental for me. I moved into my first apartment, started my first real (aka salaried) job, fulfilled my dream of vising Nevers, France, made enough money to pay taxes, got my first adult crown (dental, not tiara), got a niece, become one of those people who brush 8 inches of snow off their car while being pummeled by more snow. Reunions that were 2 years in the making happened thanks to the second wave of friends getting married. My appreciation for home and family has grown exponentially, and my definition of both has been broadened. I've spent a lot of time with myself which is scary because the more we know ourselves, the harder it is to ignore our imperfections. But squaring up with our mess is Step 1 to growing, improving, becoming someone we're proud to be. You know, the person that our 16 year old self would be proud of. You know what I'm talking about. When you're 16, you have an idea, an aspiration of who you want to be...even if it is slightly delusional (hey, we were all some kind of delusional at 16). It's all the qualities and dimensions of our person that we actually wanted to be once the superficial was shaken away. 

I started learning Spanish at 24. I have my own apartment, "my" Wegmans, a year's experience of this chaotic, exhausting, kick-ass job under my belt. I have conquered some of my biggest fears (vulnerability, spiders, etc.) and discovered new ones that I'm ready to face head on. I have my life. And God in heaven knows better than anyone that it is far from perfect. As "old" as 24 is, it certainly had its growing pains, believe you me. But as Chapter 24 is coming to a close, I am grateful. And genuinely happy. And not because of everything that happened in the past year. Frankly, a lot of it sucked. But I know it moved the plot forward. It feels like I'm finally getting my sea legs for life. There's still some stumbling around ahead of me, no doubt about it. I'm going into 25 with confidence though. If I can handle everything that came at me in 24, then bring on 25. I'm ready.

My Worst Thanksgiving

I would imagine that for most people this would entail something like a massive family feud that lasts decades or a burnt turkey that took off your eyebrows and almost your whole house with it. Maybe the Worst Thanksgiving heralds back to childhood when the world was so unbelievably intolerable because there were so many grown ups who you were supposedly related to (though you had never seen them before) and they all ignored the kids table once that bottle of wine was opened. Maybe they've all been terrible and you just skip that holiday now.

For me the Worst Thanksgiving wasn't hard to pinpoint. It was 2 weeks ago. And actually, everything pertaining to Thanksgiving itself was great. The food was delicious, the family I ate with was fantastic and reminded me of my own. I even took home some leftovers for the weekend that were devoured at my stomach's earliest convenience.

But then that was it.

I left after dinner on Thursday and went back to my apartment...and suddenly all of my Thanksgiving/weekend festivities were over. On freaking Thursday night. It was just me and Season 3 of Arrow. So I did the only logical thing I could do: throw a pity party and clean my apartment.

To be fair, it didn't start out as a pity party. It was more like a "It's totally ok that I'm all alone this entire weekend while everyone else is with their family/friends! I'll just clean my apartment and feel good about asserting my independence on the world!" So I tuned into the Christmas radio station, put on a pair of sweatpants (because Thanksgiving, duh), and I set out to make my rented space my home. 

Christmas music is a tricky little monster. Even the most cheerful or cliche or overplayed songs can send you down memory lane ("Holy crap, that was hilarious when Laura made that lip sync video to All I Want for Christmas is You!!"). You start out joyously dancing around and singing with Andy Williams (It really IS the most wonderful time of the year!), but before you know it, the next song is "I'll be Home for Christmas"

And you're sitting on your kitchen floor

Holding the pictures you were hanging on your refrigerator (Look how happy I was...)

And you start to cry.

Of course when I say you, I totally mean me, I was dancing, I was looking at my favorite pictures from the past 3 years of my life, and I was sucker punched by the sad sentimentality of "I'll be Home for Christmas". There wasn't even any alcohol involved! How much of a stereotype do you think I am? That song is real, y'all.

This was my thought progression as I sat on my kitchen floor listening to the saddest Christmas song ever bar only Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas:

1) Hey! I'll be home for Christmas! It's so true!

2) Home...I wonder what game they're playing right now...

3) [Looking at my pictures] I can't believe it's already been more than 2 years since graduating from college. I was so close with *insert name. I should call *insert name. But not right now because *insert name is freaking eating with their freaking family for the whole dang weekend.

4) [If ooonlyyy in myyy dreeeeeams!] I am doomed to be alone! Flow, you beautiful river of tears! Just not on this picture, I really like it.

The song ended. And the cup of holiday cheer was half empty and draining. I even wondered how long I could sit on the floor before I would start to lose respect for myself. But instead of answering myself, I resolved to get up. I thought of my poor mother and how heartbroken she would be if I called her (after that brief mom-joy moment of "My 24 year old baby needs me!") because there would be nothing she could do to bring me home faster. Then I had a realization of how proud my mom would be (and is) of me. Not because of the crying on the floor thing, that's just embarrassing. But she would be proud to have raised a daughter who was crazy enough and gutsy enough to take an all-in chance in my life even without having all the answers.

And that quickly led to me thinking about one day if I have a daughter, I would want her to be just brave enough and passionate enough and crazy enough and unstoppable enough to feel like she can take these illogical, empowering steps in her life for the sake of being true to herself.

I would be ashamed to tell my daughter about the Thanksgiving I sat on the kitchen floor and cried...if it ended there. But one day, I can tell my daughter the story of how I took a chance on myself and got up off the floor and resolved to live my life instead of waiting for it to start.

Those Days

Today was a Tuesday that felt like a Monday. It was a day when you reach the bottom of your second cup of coffee and forget when you even made that second cup. Today was a day when your theme song was “One of Those Days”by Joshua Radin. It was a day that I remembered I was going to pick up a bottle of wine…after I was already home. (And not the cheap crap that people in their 20s seem to think it’s ok to drink. Let’s be serious here)

I suppose it all started around 1 am, at 1:07 am to be exact. My phone (which of course doubles as my alarm) started ringing, a wrong number. No, I didn’t answer and have some trippy, half-asleep conversation with a stranger. What did go down was me staring at my phone as it continued to ring while I tried to figure out what was happening. Is my alarm going off? Why does it look like a phone number? Do I have 1 minute and 7 seconds left in my snooze time? Am I supposed to wake up when it’s this dark out? Eventually my instincts took over and I simply hit the lock button to stop the ringing, replaced my phone in its proper overnight spot, and snuggled back into bed. I’d been asleep a little over an hour. And I never found that heavenly deep sleep the rest of the night. Quite frankly, the rain hitting the window just kept confusing me for the next 6 hours. (Is it a raccoon? Is it still raining? Do I get to sleep now?)

Then the day actually began. You know the kind: you get asked about everything that is literally on your to do list for the day, and while you know you’ve been busy the past few days, you can’t think of what exactly you were doing that prevented you from completing those tasks. Where’s the neon sign screaming, “Hey I’m the new girl! Hear my incompetence roar!” Oh wait, there it is…right on my forehead. Not to mention all the things that come up during the day that have to be dealt with immediately.

By the way, it was cold and rainy all day. Of course.

Thankfully I can sit and write this from the comfort of my yoga pants, wineless but able to look to tomorrow without a pit of dread in my stomach. I recognize that that’s not a given. We all have “those days” that turn into “those weeks” and maybe even more. Truth be told, the past three months have felt like “those months” because that’s what happens when you totally uproot yourself and dive headfirst into a brand new life. Sometimes it just sucks. And that’s ok.

What’s really cool and humbling and wonderful is that even in “these months” (or especially in “these months”?), there are moments of grace, joy, and wonder peppered throughout. The best is when God gets a little heavy-handed in his peppering, and I get overwhelmed with how much he loves me and carries me in my innumerable faults and empowers me to be pretty freaking awesome. At least when I let him. That last bit never seems to stick. But everyday is another chance to try. 

No wait, not try. How could I forget Yoda's wisdom? "Do or do not. There is no try."

Ok. Here I go.