Month: August 2011

  • Years

    It’s been over seven years since my last entry, and reading several of my old entries brings pangs of nostalgia for a time when I remembered a feeling of excitement towards the future. I’m thirty now, and although that person seven years ago is a shadow of who I am today, it’s hard not to feel a little heavy – figuratively and literally.

    Why am I writing now? I’m not entirely sure, especially since that in this day of inundation of social media surrounding self-serving drivel, this entry will be easily glossed over and forgotten as all my previous entries have been. But perhaps it’s that desire to feel recognized… to share my experience with at least one person who can validate that I am here or was here and have had experienced these fragments of emotions and memories. 

    So what has happened? Since my last entry, I left my mountainside shack in Japan and moved to San Francisco. I worked in politics, smoked an exorbitant amount of chronic, and I ultimately ended up sleeping with my boss. I then moved to New York City and received my Master’s in Counseling Psychology, while perpetuating a completely dysfunctional relationship with a fuck-friend that resembled more of a circus shit show that involved copious amounts of drugs, themed parties, a bout of suicidal ideation, and therapy sessions that resembled something from the tv show “In Treatment.” In other words, stupid shit you do in your twenties.

    I have to say, despite what a complete wreck I was, my twenties was at least interesting; it was a rollercoaster of ridiculousness. Imagine one moment my eyes agleam with glitter, and the next moment, sobbing with Tammy Faye mascara down my face – it was fabulous. 

    And now, as I hit thirty, my life has slowed down to a pedestrian level of emotional and physical jogging. This could be attributed to the breakthrough I had in therapy two years ago  where I worked through mommy issues and learned how to regulate my emotions from being a yo yo to a bland piece of slightly browned piece of bread. I’m not sure if that analogy worked, but you get the picture. I’m boring now. Or what I consider to be boring. 

    Is this was thirties are about? I’m now in a committed relationship with a wonderful boyfriend of nearly two years, joined a Japanese taiko group, and have a steady job as an Academic Advisor at NYU. Life is like clockwork now. Wake, work, eat, sleep. 
     
    There was a time where I was unemployed directly after my Master’s program where I had some freedom to choose to do whatever. During this time I attempted to pursue my life long dream of being a performer, taking improv classes, recording a voiceover demo tape, going to auditions and occasionally scoring some work. But what I realized that this dream was really just a fantasy. I didn’t enjoy the lifestyle and lack of routine and paycheck. I also realized that I’m just too reticent to be an actor in a world where actors have to think of themselves as hot shit when the majority of them are cold diarrhea. I didn’t want it enough… or if I do, I’m not assertive enough to work through that world.
     
    So here I am. On my computer. Seven years later. I realize that I’m still relatively young with 2/3 of my life still yet to be “written.” But something changes when you’re in your thirties. You can’t really do as much stupid shit without looking like an idiot. At least when you’re in your twenties, that stupid shit is kinda cute since you’re still growing out your youth. But now, in this peter pan era where we never want to grow up, my generation is still wanting to squeeze into those tights/jeggings when our metabolisms are slowing, our joints tightening, and the muscles on our faces are beginning to show as lines. NOT CUTE.
     
    To conclude, I know I can’t really complain. I took advantage of my twenties and pranced around in my underwear on Fire Island. I lived. But now, as my friends start to marry and have children, why does that spontaneity become less and less? Why does it become more of a concerted effort to go out, get drunk and recover? And why does this entire entry sound like it should be on whitewhine.com? Alas. Cuz aging sucks.