29: purposefully defiant

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you know, I  was a little more than disappointed when I realized my birthday was going to be on a Wednesday this year…until I realized that basically gave me the weekend before AND after to celebrate because it’s directly in the middle of those two things. I have debated about what to do and where to go because I always make a big deal out of my birthday, but this year? Nothing. Not a shred of interest in planning. I couldn’t land on a specific taste bud or wish or thought. I knew I wanted to blast Lil Wayne and Nicki Minaj all day while driving to and from things, but that was it. Normally, I could honestly care less about any other holiday or break or whatever — I just want to celebrate the hell out of my birthday; every year, always have, always will. This year was different; I felt…underwhelmed. I’m not sure if it’s the idea of rounding the corner to thirty that’s scaring me or if I just don’t care about a number that seems so lame…either way, I didn’t really give a fck about my birthday until everyone else did. That’s never happened. I have people in my life that give a shit about me. ……..weird. right?  I seriously hope some of you are out there experiencing some amazing friendships and love BECAUSE IT EXISTS, Y’ALL. I could expound, but we’d be here until I turn thirty.

I have hit the stride in my life where the people who don’t want to be around aren’t and the people that give a shit are. I heard from all of the major players today before 10am; I’d say that’s pretty good for a bunch of millennials that don’t have normal working hours, most with children, most still in school and balancing a millennial’s worth of work. I am beyond impressed with where my friends are and what we’re doing and accomplishing for a generation that seems so lost to the rest of society. Yeah, it’s hard. It’s ridiculous, it’s a circus; it’s far too emotional and involved than it should be, but that’s the way the cards fell. We’re the Jetsons; we’re creating everything and displaying everything and gathering humble credit by the heap. Sometimes we make it purposefully difficult for ourselves, but that’s everyone I think. For the push, for the drive, or just out of sheer laziness. I’m closer to thirty and honestly no better than the rest of the world at making decisions or choices. I keep thinking that I’ll hit thirty next year and just know what the hell I’m doing; those that I know over thirty hear that and laugh. “We make it up as we go,” a friend says in a reassuring voice, and I know it’s true.

twenty-eight led me to doing more and seeing more and waking the fck up….way more than I thought. I taught 115 (maybe more, maybe less) yoga classes. I traveled to several places in the US and visited Mexico; put on more miles than since my father was alive. I tried new foods, read new authors, explored new religions, and music and ideas. I discovered this whole new me I didn’t know was there, but felt familiar once I found her. I am a more open version of myself; less judgmental, more rational, understanding and willing to forgive. It’s a hard thing to know you don’t want to forgive a person, or situation or moment…but once you do. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. Wowzers. The introspection is ridiculous and the clarity is unparalleled. Seriously. Approach thirty and get over yourself. It’s amazing.

entering year twenty-nine has made me realize a number of things. I made this list as I laid in bed with my best friend last night (I slept on a giant, fluffy, pink unicorn after laughing my ass off about nothing at all.) I was fearful I might not remember by morning, and I may still be leaving some things out, though these are more observations than anything else::

  1. [most] my tattoos are ten years old. they have been on me and part of my body for an entire decade. I remember walking in to the old location of Speakeasy (a place that does not even exist any more) and thinking, “Okay. One down, 100 to go.” While I don’t plan on have 100 tattoos…I don’t regret them yet. I think they make me unique and I like the idea of maybe one day having to be identified by the treble/bass clef on my right rib cage.
  2. I cannot handle a hangover. Though it does not keep me from testing my limits every now and then. (Last Thursday night was proof, though worth it. Laughter always is. Laugh hard, deal with the hangover, keep going.)
  3. when I am tired, that’s the end. there’s no going back, no second wind, no hope. I am a lost cause to the room I am left in and lets hope there a blanket and a contact case with solution in it.
  4.  i constantly miss my father. the ten-year anniversary of his passing sifted right before my eyes this year and all i could do was blink to acknowledge it. it can’t possibly have been this long. how fast does time pass? is there a way to measure grief? i can’t possibly be continuing on without my best friend, but that’s what I’ve been doing because that’s what he taught me to do; I’ll do it for ten years more, I suppose.
  5. I am finally able to find the humor in abysmal situations. I feel like I could elaborate on this, but if you know me, or if you’re over 25, you know what I mean.

twenty-nine years has really gone too fast. ten years since my dad passed, nearly eleven years since highschool, still in college, no kids, no husband. But I am whole. I am learning, growing, connecting, disconnecting, reflecting, and moving forward. Social formalities seem to allude me.

I know it’s normal to make New Year’s resolutions, but I always wait until my birthday to commit to things. There’s something about being a January baby that just makes your commitment to the happenings of the new year more connected and final. I am aware that everyone has 364 days between their birthdays, but I feel like it’s much more refreshing in January. (and how appropriate for the most OCD star sign, the Capricorn.) This year, I have promised myself to be  better to my mind and my body; to make selections on what I do, drink, eat and etc. that will have only positive effects. I have committed to being purposefully defiant. It’s in my nature to go against the grain, to feel and empathize with minorities, to always be way outside the box and color outside the lines. This year, I’m following the rules to get where I need to be; I’m defying myself — in the sense that I’m reinventing/reshaping what once was — and isn’t that refreshing?  It isn’t always easy for me to say “yes” to what is expected, but sometimes, it’s necessary. I’m following along certain paths to make my dreams easier to reach, and I feel confident certainty is the most adult gift I could ever give myself during this pivotal year. “Thirty, flirty, and thriving,” doesn’t happen over night. I cannot disappoint Jenna.

As I close my eyes to sleep tonight, I am fully aware that:: I am focused, loved, happy, driven, subtly eccentric, and smart. I’m a weirdo, I’m wired backwards..and I wouldn’t change a damn thing. Happy new year and happy birthday to me. May the rest of this twenty-ninth year be full of discovery, travels, and nothing but daily celebration of breath and life.

 

 

EDIT:: I would like to make a note that after I posted this, WordPress notified me that this was my 100th blog. I believe in coincidence and milestone. happy birthday, indeed.

lackluster twenty-seven.

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So, my 27th birthday is upon me. Sunday, the 11th to be exact. I can’t believe I’ve made it this far….just slightly passed a jubilee indulgence, less than three decades, but almost. I feel like I’ve lived 27 different lifetimes in the last year with all of the changes I’ve gone through – though reflecting on 2014 I wouldn’t have it any other way. I know that New Year’s Eve really marks the beginning of a new year, but I’ve never really been too excited about it; I mostly just wait to catch the excitement for my birthday, just ten days later.

I cannot begin to tell you how pumped I am to see what my twenty-seventh year is going to hold for me. While I’m sad that this makes me closer to thirty, I’m happy with how I’m aging. Growing up I was always nervous for, “milestone,” birthdays: sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-five….all very promising, but each ending up being categorized as thoroughly mundane.

Sixteen was supposed to be this magical birthday where you get a brand new car (which I did and I still can’t believe my parents did that for me) and wear the perfect party dress and get kissed by the guy of your dreams (Heath Ledger was unavailable so I opted for my high school boyfriend) and spend the entire evening doing magical, wonderful, dreamy things. Instead, my father was in the hospital and my mom ordered fried fish from the catfish place up the road and my friends ran around the neighborhood while I sat inside watching Dawson’s Creek reruns because it was too damn cold outside to function.

Eighteen wasn’t too terrible except for the fact that 10 months later, my dad died. I still haven’t gotten over the fact that he wasn’t around for 19…or any of my other birthdays. I try not to let this make me bitter as I shove king cake (my favorite kind of birthday cake – I’m a Louisiana girl, after-all) in my face, while trying not to cry.

Twenty-one was one for the books, even though I’d been drinking for years by this time. I celebrated my damn 21st birthday the entire month of January. Hibachi with a table of friends, a bar full of people I haven’t seen in forever, drinking with my mom until she got too tipsy and had to be driven home by another one of my friends, a fancy dinner with my boyfriend, best friends and family, where I was roasted to the point of tears; semi-happy and semi-sad…my mom had a knack at the time for making the seemingly most-sincere of jokes not so funny – but I love her anyway (and we’ve well-grown past our differences.)

I was exceptionally hopeful for twenty-five. I was married, had just received a fabulous cut and color from my favorite hair dresser and planned on spending the evening with friends and food and laughter; the night was not nearly as exciting as I hoped. I spent the night crying in to a glass of Jameson at a bar while talking about how beautiful love is.

All of these big birthdays have been extremely lackluster in their own right, with highs and lows to keep it interesting enough for me to write about, obviously.

Last year, for twenty-six, since my husband (ex? do I call him that yet?) shared a birthday, planned a day full of football, friends and food (and adult bevs, of course.) I was so ready for a night out with my friends and hopeful that this birthday would erase all of the crappy ones, as I do every year. I suppose I can compare it to high school dances – you spend hours getting ready for, “the perfect night,” and it ends up being worse than you could have imagined, crying in the bathroom over a boy that won’t dance with you and drinking nasty spiked punch. Though I did manage to party my ass off and stay out til seven in the morning, twenty-six was when I discovered that I knew jack-shit about life; that I had no idea how to make anything work properly and that I needed to find better ways of doing everything.

So, now that I’ve complained for 723 words, I’d like to take a moment to express my excitement for this next birthday. This year, in my new year, I am moving forward without expectation. I’m taking control of all of the planning for myself and carefully selecting what I’m doing and with whom. I want drama free fun and I’m going to get it. I get to spend it with my true friends and my beautiful family, doing what I love: spending quality time with those that matter. I’ll probably sneak in lots of yoga and a trip to New Orleans. I hope to eat fancy-schmance appetizers and sip too many sazeracs. I already have something sparkly to wear and I just chopped off more of my hair – feeling super Parisian and fabulous already.

I am so happy I had some seriously wah-wah birthdays, because this year I truly know how to appreciate the day, and how to celebrate it: FEELING BLESSED TO BE ALIVE AND NOTHING MORE. Year twenty-seven, unless I go the way of the Forever 27 Club, is going to be the best. I feel happier and healthier than I have in my entire twenties and I finally have a grip on who I am, what I want and where I’m headed.

Lackluster twenty-seven, I’m going to make you shine.

ALSO…..these are hilarious and mostly/definitely true.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/jessicamisener/things-that-start-to-happen-when-youre-almost-30#.tymz4x9AZ

what does fleek mean? help me.