I was supposed to write about writing today – well it was supposed to happen yesterday, but I was tired and… life so anyways – I was supposed to write about my writing season, but instead I’m writing about this.
I feel so dumb even admitting this.
I am really having a hard time turning 30. And I’m not even turning 30 until April!! Which means I’m not even half way through my 29th year! Gah, Dupuis, get a freaking grip.
But there it is. I’m having a hard time with it. I don’t want to get older. I want to stay a young grown up forever. I want to have all the time in the world. I don’t want to admit that some ships have sailed.
I am sprouting greys and I will not be dying them. I just don’t feel like handling that kind of up-keep. So I will go slowly slowly grey and whatever, I don’t care about the color so much but fuck, the texture. All wiry an sticking out in fucked up directions, WHAT IS THAT? WHY? Ugh.
I feel wrinkly and like my skin is dry and papery. This is maybe kind of harsh considering, but I am seeing the beginning signs of aging and it is not all misty reminiscence.
Also it’s my dad’s 59th birthday today. So that adds to this post’s ridiculousness. Because hello…. if anyone is old, it’s probably him (except not, he looks 40 and probably always will). Happy Birthday Dad!
But then there is this other thing where I can’t stop making lists in my head of all the other jobs I could have chosen, and what is wrong with me? Why didn’t I choose THOSE? Why didn’t someone tell me I could have been a voice actor or a zoo keeper or a photographer or a librarian? I mean I almost went to grad school for BOOK PUBLISHING, and we all know how that worked out. Good thing I picked writing instead. HA. HA. HA… hurumph.
Mostly I feel like I am kind of a mild, mediocre, failure at my current situation, my current job trajectory. And yeah, I’m about to start a new decade, and I’m feeling stalled out whereas the grass is always greener on other people’s lawns, that they own, in front of their house and stuff (or at least maybe like a townhome?), and people are movin’ on up while I am sort of crossing my fingers week to week that this place still finds use for me and my job doesn’t become obsolete and/or taken over by robots.
And did you know that I am writing a book? A book that will take me 10349302745834 years to finish. I’ll be dead and the book will still be but a few sad pages on a computer somewhere that no one can even access because tech has moved so far forward they use computers as coasters. I’ve been working on this book for a month now and do you know what my goal is this week? To get to double digit pages. Why is this the sad state of my creative life? Because I wrote a bunch and then I deleted it and started over. Which is a legit creative strategy if you want to get almost nowhere – almost because it’s a better nowhere than the previous version of nowhere 1.0 since the reboot.
You know when I was 23 I told my advisor that I wanted to have my first (my first, as if there would be many many more) book published by the time I was 30. She said, “you totally can. absolutely” and I was genuinely surprised she saw that much possibility in me. Unbeknownst to her I had just sort of pulled that nice round number out of my butt. Far enough away to give me time, but legitimate enough to make it reasonable. I remember exactly where I was when I said it, I remember exactly what I was wearing and the tea I was drinking and the notebook I was writing in as if it had happened last weekend because that is exactly how it feels. And now I am 29. Have been for a minute or two. What of it?
I guess I didn’t also think I’d have a kid or be married or have as many interesting/strange jobs under my belt or have as many interesting/strange adventures. I guess that stuff is what happened. I just didn’t expect the greys or the amount of unrelenting chin hairs, my slowly failing eyes, and my intense longing for a backyard with a kiddy pool and a barbecue to come along with it. Or you know, how nothing professional happened like I thought it would.
Ugh 29. You’re the worst.