Lordy how long has it been?
The last 5 months have been quite…delightful. And by that I mean, Thank whatever there is to thank that I get to wake up everyday and breathe and exist and be. I think I’ve gone all tree hugging and hippie-fied on you: Perhaps the meaning of life is simply to live it.
I have nothing profound to say about nearly dying from a ruptured ulcer on my intestines. I can write something funny about how I scheduled a whole day to myself to flip the ever living hell out and how my mind split into two distinct and competing places: First, I should just say fuck all and jet off to a beach somewhere because life is freaky and precious and small and I could be gone tomorrow so screw bills and debt and the trappings that smother us all. Second: I should stay here and really, finally, get all my crap together because if I do die who wants to sort through piles of size four clothing that won’t fit me until I’ve decomposed for at least a year and stacks of financial papers?
I’ve compromised a bit on both, first by actively trying to live every moment in the moment every day (this is fun when you have the right attitude, and not all hard and scary like your brain tries to trick you into thinking) and I’m also cleaning out all the crap I’ve accumulated and trying to make the stuff I will keep organized. There might even be a novel somewhere if I piece together the bits of binder paper and receipts I’ve scribbled things on over the years, but it will take much time to get it all in one place.
My recent birthday, unlike pretty much every single birthday since I was 9, didn’t shake me up quite as much this year. I don’t know if it has as much to do with the fact that I am so damn happy to be alive so much as there is an imperceptible line it seems I have crossed and suddenly I feel no pressure. I turned 27 just a few days ago. Somehow my brain is no longer concerned with my weight or my career progress or the fact that I make no money, own no house, and will be paying on my car long after my great grandchildren have come and gone.
No, instead, it is as though there was some imaginary age line that I had to be successful by and since it didn’t happen my brain just decided to give up, and I don’t mean give up in a bad way, I just mean that since the goals weren’t met by a designated time my internal psycho clock of doom has shrugged off and gone away. “You’re too old”, my brain seems to say, “and we are over it, so we are gone now”. My insecurities no longer want me to weigh double digits and compete with 19 year olds. My failure meter suddenly seized up and isn’t screaming at me every second of every damn day. “So what?” My brain seems so to say, “you didn’t make it so we are gone now”.
It is really, very nice.
I also suspect that is has something with the last vestiges of youth falling away. It is as though I only conceived of ever being in my early 20s and therefore had to cram all success and perfection into those years because there was nothing beyond. I had envisioned nothing for myself in this time and therefore have no crazy standard to live up to. I don’t know if perhaps months of heavy painkillers has finally doped out my brain to such a point that it doesn’t function right anymore or if maybe, just maybe, I’m finally learning to relax and let go, but it is a strange feeling to wake up and think “Hey, I’m okay” and have that be okay.
Bah. Enough introspection. I am still dating the very nice boy who took me to the hospital so many months ago when I thought I just had a very bad stomach flu and didn’t realize that I kept passing out from pain. The very nice boy and I are taking a tropical vacation, my first ever!, in three weeks and though it would be nice to have dropped, oh, say, 15 pounds, that isn’t going to happen and I don’t care. (fear ye not, I have supplemental medical insurance just for this trip)
Work is fine. It pays almost all the bills, nearly every month, and it isn’t giving me another ulcer. Being in that I no longer control the internet access like I did at my old job (working just three doors down from HELL with horrid, crazy people for no money at all), I am unable to blog from work, which, let’s be frank, is the best time to post. I’m freshest in the morning and who doesn’t love to pound out a good entry before the day really gets going?
The other problem is that my co-workers here are not the troglodytes of the past who didn’t even understand email, these people read blogs, and I fear the day when one of them, or the boyfriend, finds said blog. Because YES, judge away, the boyfriend does not know about said blog and nor will he, perhaps ever. Some things have to be anonymous, ya know?
I don’t know how or what 27 is supposed to look like, dress like, or act. But it feels good. Good and old and rather scary with responsibility at the same time. But it feels mature and assured and pressure free. I even had low lights put in my naturally blonde hair which darkened it considerably, which to a normal person may not sound like much but to me was a big change. I like it darker, it makes me happy, and screw it if my mother hates it. I’m a grown adult woman and I’m alive. ALIVE.
Do you understand how neat that is?