I thought of adding “something” after the 30. After all, I’m no longer a blushing 30-year old but hey, who’s keeping track?
I wrote this piece for a writing class. I had just come out of severe depression and with a dying father in the hospital, was in danger of falling into that hole again. For me, that class was opportune, a lifeline. I honestly don’t know how I would have made it otherwise. It gave me something else to focus on and got me into writing once again.
When my dad just lay there, in that hospital bed, unable to talk, death looming closer, I wrote. When he was gone and my chest felt like it would never feel warm again, I wrote. When I woke up at 3am on the morning of his funeral, dreading the day ahead, I wrote. When I saw him dying over and over in my dreams, I wrote. When I thought about him being buried or even coming back to life, I wrote then too.
Writing got me through the darkest time of my life. And as time went by and the wound hurt a little less each day, writing became more than just a lifeline. It is how I’m trying to make a livelihood now. And as I look forward to a year of writing, I figured I’d share what I wrote then.
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The assignment brief was to imagine yourself as a columnist and then write a column piece on your birthday.
I tried to put myself in the mind of a hardnosed columnist, think Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and The City or Jennifer Garner’s character in 13 going on 30. But of course, there are bits of me that sneaked in there, struggles that I had been dealing with, and which in part had led to the depression. But hey, enough foreplay, here goes.
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TAKING STOCK AT 30
Nice guys don’t finish last; they just get on your last nerve.
(Byline here and date)
It’s my 30th birthday today.
I’m looking at the woman in the mirror and I don’t recognize her. She’s not the 30-year old that a younger me envisioned, that she started planning for and working towards.
For starters, that’s the wrong mirror, in the wrong house. Where is the apartment with the medley of shabby, nerdy, and rock chic decor that she painstakingly put together? Where’s the window seat and reading nook? The quirky novelty knickknacks dotting the rooms? The Doctor Who wall art? The Sin City, or was it Kill Bill – she never did decide – poster?
Where is the title deed to the land that she bought using her savings? The doctorate and the accompanying accolades from the many papers that she has co-authored, and the numerous conferences that she was a keynote speaker at? Where’s the research for her first book?
And where is the artsy rocker boyfriend? Her screaming partner at all the rock gigs, you know, for when she needs to let loose? And for the wall-banging sex that later makes for awkward hallway encounters with the neighbors – limited space, thin walls; what’s a girl to do?
All she has, is her pink bedroom at her parents’ house and an incomplete masters’ degree. There is also the realization – after dating a series of nice guys – that nice guys don’t finish last; they just get on your last nerve. They are like words that writers hang onto, the little darlings that we just can’t kill. Why? You may ask. It’s not because we love them so; we probably never did. Or because they make the earth move day and night; it’s a chore at this point. It’s because we don’t want to break their nice hearts. We’re nice too. Nice in a cesspit of passive-aggressiveness with our foot outside the door at all times, slowly dying for an opening so we can finally get the hell out of there. We’ve been on enough guilt trips at this point to earn frequent flyer miles. And with the way we assuage that guilt? To join the mile high club as well.
So, no checked boxes on my checklist. It’s back to the drawing board for a new plan to match this 30 year old me – once I get to know her. Thank God I still have my Bob, my trusty companion. He’ll have to do for now.
Happy birthday to me.
Knightlessjules 