“Maybe okay will be our always.” – John Green
I realized, at 4:52 this morning, that I am 30 and a half today (stoners rejoice! whhaaaat).
With that realization came the usual suspects of worry, fear, doubt – though THAT could have been because my friend and I watched this “horror” movie called “Tusk” last night about this psycho guy who transforms this other dude into a walrus, and so all night I was dreaming about little tiny humans being turned into seals… which are not the same animal, but… whatever. This is why I don’t do horror movies.
I think people spend far too much time worrying about what they must accomplish, and why, and when, and the what’s-it-say-ifs. I am no exception. At the age of 12 I thought I wouldn’t live til 16, at 16 it was 20, I had all these things to do that I never did, because there was never enough time, and no one to impress, and no reason to really do anything, and the cycle just went on. It’s a little less dramatically urgent for me now, even though it’s a weird place to be in when you’re 30. And not fitting into one of life’s typical conventions.
It’s been an experience, this learning how to be okay. I’m certainly not an expert, and I definitely am still doing things I should not do – for the sake of my sanity and those around me. Take the dude from last post, for example… I was so convinced after our last meeting that he WAS NOT correct for me (red flags! everywhere! sea of red!), but I also felt myself trying to figure out a way to ignore those red flags (because he said that I was pretty!) that I took a day to formulate how to make sure we wouldn’t work. I found it was perfectly acceptable to be cloyingly annoying via followup texts. My brain said he would reject me, so that I wouldn’t have to be that rejector. Not that he was all about me (although there has been no definitive answer on that front, but common sense would be a good indicator), but I wanted to make absolutely certain that I could nail that coffin shut. I figure I’ll take about another month and maybe explain myself. He might not give a fuck. Really, I shouldn’t be giving this fuck; really, I should have said, “Dude, you’re great, and thanks for telling me that I’m pretty, but…”. But, you know. I’m 30 and a half. I can make these poor decisions.
I’m starting to take a flashlight to certain areas in my life, seeing what’s okay and what’s not, working more on acceptance and less on because-I-or-someone-else-said-so’s. It’s been a very hard thing (perhaps the hardest thing), to not be so hard on myself. I was downright ugly to myself, at times.
But it’s better now. I wake up and smile. I’m not giving myself hugs, but I try to actively love who I am. It’s a much better way to be. I’m like the Dalai Lama: I have a limited amount of fucks, and I’m not about to be going around giving them willy-nilly. I gotta devote energy to what matters. (Look at me, being one of those shiny-happies. I think I’ll change my name to Blossom.)
At least, I think that’s what the Dalai Lama’s about.
It would be cool if he was, anyway.
I’m about to head out and throw down on some Austin, Texas happy-hour cuisine.
Have a good night, readers, and be kind to your pretty-and-sparkly selves.