Oh...I'm not there yet. But I will be.
And do you have any idea how fucking scary that is?
In a little over six months...pow. Another box... checked. Reading glasses. The age when all chicks who grew up on Carrie Bradshaw should have gotten Mr. Big by now. Or Steve. Or Harry, or hot younger model-type dude who you dump your billionaire boyfriend for. (Seriously. Where they do THAT at?)
Yes... it's 40. My young adult life is clearly done.The land of "fine line reducer" and "15% chance of conceiving naturally". I'm about that wine and Spanx life. The thought of anything beginning at 10pm makes me laugh. Even if it's Friday. And 20 somethings are beginning to irritate me. Not because I'm jealous of their youth, but because they're just fucking irritating.
40. The number implies half of my life is already done and whatever I'm doing should be what I'm happy doing for the rest of my life because I'll be too damn tired and ornery to do anything else. I should settle into boring...and like it.
Now, this is the part when I try to rationalize not being the raving success that I thought I'd be at this age. This is the part I justify the proverbial "midlife crisis motor cycle." This is like scratching a rash to heal a headache, so feel free to decline my invite to the pity party. I shall be pouring lots of glasses of self pity. Poor me. Pour me.
To be fair (to my ego), I was only able to REALLY get down with like, half of my age as a working independent adult capable of making awesome life changing decisions, right? I'm saying, you can't really LIVE until you're at least 20, and then you need to pack as much awesome as you can into those final 20 years.
I mean, from age 0-21, I'm pretty much still capable of doing shit that might get my parents thrown in jail for not keeping a better eye on me. From 21-30, I was pretty much broke and trying to figure it all out and from 30-39...Jesus. I have no idea what the fuck happened.
Oh, wait. Yes I do. </Excuses>
I won't go into it, but it had a lot of giving myself AWAY and not focusing on what the eff I needed to do as a responsible adult because, being honest, I never thought I'd have to grow up and become one.
No. That's a lie.
I didn't want to.
The way I see it, my life up until now has been Jay-Z philosophy applied backwards. Dude had 99 problems but a b*tch wasn't one? I had 99 problems and they were ALL about a b*...well... a relationship. (I'll be nice.) The one problem I wanted to have...should have had, would have been fucking DELIRIOUS to have, would be to concentrate on my writing and career. However, I was under the impression that since I lived in New York and was awesome at communication and drinking....success would just fall into my lap. Just like that. Finger snap. Lookie at how lucky I am!
By the time I woke up and smelled the Bustelo (because I still live in the Bronx, I don't care what the people in Riverdale consider it) I was 38 and like this, sad, black girl version of "Eat, Pray, Love".
Let me tell you. I sat on my couch, night after night watching that damn movie. Eating Bertoli mushroom ravioli with a glass of wine and crying.
...I'll take a year off. I'm sure this will happen to me.
Don't give me that look. It's not lazy. I read the book too.
Fine. Actually, I listened to the book. I got it from an audible free trial. (It was unabridged, OK?) And Elizabeth Gilbert said (she narrated it) hit me directly in my gut and I know I'm not the only one. How?
Well, you don't get on Oprah and get to give epic Ted Talks if a few million women didn't nod along with your beat. So by default, I was now connected to millions of women who had felt the same way in some form or fashion (and Bali's tourism got a hell of a boost).
Do you know how good that feels? To know you're not alone in the mid-life crisis? To know you wake up one day, look at your life and say, "What the fuck? This is not me. This is somebody else. And I've been too afraid to be me." And you're not ALONE in faking it? I hope you do. If not, get on that bus IMMEDIATELY.
Well, actually, there was one place I could actually be myself. Where "being me" had been nothing but praised and celebrated. Being "me" gave everyone else permission to be them... and then something happened. I got honest. Real honest...while online, which was soon shot down as "putting business out in the street" and I stopped. As did the flow.
But back to the movie. I wanted to go on my own "Eat, Pray, Love", but let's be clear. I was not naive enough to believe that Elizabeth's journey and mine would be exactly alike. I wanted an "Eat, Pray, Love" to get back to the truth. And I had to do it ASAP...before I died inside. It was that serious. And I knew it was, because I developed "pericarditis" and doctors couldn't explain why. But I knew why. Fully.
Know that moment in the book/movie when she's crying and just praying like..."just tell me what to do..." and Spirit tells her simply "Go back to bed Liz." That actually happened.
The "still small voice" does JUST that. It doesn't say, "OK. Get out your pen. First of all... you're going to do "this". I don't know why I believed asking for help from Spirit is like asking for a wish from the genie in Aladdin.
It simply tells you to go back to bed. Let go. Surrender.
So I did. And I found out about a class at my Spiritual center called "The 4 T's" Now, the "4Ts" stands for the "Tithing" of "Time", "Talent" and "Treasure". And I meant to do it...fully. I'd just come off the heels of Iyanla Vanzant's
One Day My Soul Just Opened Up: 40 Days and 40 Nights Toward Spiritual Strength and Personal Growth and I was READY honey! What's next Life?? Bring it on! After 8 weeks of intense soul searching? WHAT? Oh that soul was thoroughly SEARCHED.I laughed. I cried. I was cracked wide open emotionally and ready to live the truth.
And then Life has a funny way of asking you, "Are you sure?". And I answered. "Yes." with all certainty and clarity.
Let me tell you, the DAY I finished my last class, I mean THAT NIGHT... I'd found out the man I was dating, (who, in reality, I was terrified I would actually fuck up and marry...how deep is THAT?), was heavily involved in an emotional affair with someone else.
Of course he was. How could he not be?
And so that ended.
It was the best thing that could have ever happened to me.
That was the PRAY version of our book.
Next comes the EAT.
Which is exactly what I did when I got an invitation to go to Paris. Long story short, it was my "bucket list" trip. I got a deal, everything fell in line and I went.
And while there, I realized something. I hadn't been authentic in years.
YEARS.
And I had no idea how long I'd been bullshitting myself, but it had been for quite some time.
And so, while in Paris, I sipped on wine every day. I looked at beauty everywhere. I spoke French. I fell in love...with myself. And I ate every single Parisian pastry that was put before me because I'd realized something else.
I'd been starving myself on purpose because I knew HE was attracted to slimmer girls. So I ate.
I came back to New York size "sexy". Hips. New hair. New outlook.
And before I could even breathe, here comes this man into my life who is determined to make me his wife.
LOVE?
Well, he did sound a lot like the "Love" part...and this is what's supposed to happen, right? I mean, I ate. I prayed. And now he was supposed to crack through all of the "getting to know myselfness" of it all and get me to "attraversiamo".
And so, I let myself heal. And be loved. And be taken care of. And you know what happened?
The almost absolute and complete loss of self. A-fucking-gain.
The early morning yoga followed by weight training? No longer, since he's always at my place.
The writing (either via social media or otherwise), the editing for fun (or practice), the silly creative things I do when I'm alone....stopped.
And the job I thought I loved became routine, frustrating. Boring.
And size sexy has morphed into size "Seriously? WTF?'
What the fuck happened to the woman who left Paris? What the fuck happened to "I found my spirit and my truth?" You threw all that away for the sake of a relationship...AGAIN?
And so, to therapy I go. (And not my black friend "the agent", because I don't have one yet because I haven't written anything agent worthy yet.) So Mr. Therapist pretty much recognized the Merry Go Round for what it was and it was totally up to me if I wanted to stay on or get off. And like some fucked up version of "The Alchemist", I found myself back home again. Where the answer was all the time.
So I decided to stop the ride.
As it slows, I can see that I've been on it so long, my head is still spinning and I really don't know how to walk yet. I accept that I've got 6 months to get to where I want to be, and I'm doing it.
With gazelle like focus.
I have a new bucket list. It's MY bucket list. But it's a reverse bucket list.
Not what I want to do before I die...but what I will get rid off so that I can LIVE.
1. Anything other than the truth.
2. Thinking my work isn't good enough.
3. Negative body image.
4. Fear of commitment. Marriage/kid. Etc.
5. Thinking in terms of lack.
6. Asking permission to be me.
7. Giving a fuck about what people think. Period.
I have six months to get to this place where all these things are gone for good. And that's exactly what shall happen.
Oh yeah, and I'm going write about it. A lot.
So now that I think about it. 40 is going to be awesome. Because I'm leaving all of this shit on this busted ass carousel and I'm moving on.
It's going to be a hell of a trip.
Who's coming with me?
-N
