Emotions make me uneasy. I try to avoid having them if I can. Sometimes, avoiding them for too long results in a perfect storm of meltdown when nothing in particular has happened. Last year, my “stressmotionings”, which is a combination of stress, emotion and odds-and-ends-feelings, manifested in a shower tantrum that nearly cost me my life at the hands of the concave bottom of my clawfoot tub. This time, they fell out of my eyeballs on the way home from work as I was sitting at a red light on the corner of 28th and the East Beltline. Which is a delightful intersection, if you’re not familiar.
I was stopped at the light, crying (a lot) and making it really obvious that I was crying by producing facial expressions and sob-noises that would make the writers of Degrassi uncomfortable. Even though it goes there. I self-consciously looked to my right and left to be sure nobody was watching, but of course they were. I would. The man to my right was really visually unappealing. All of him. His whole thing. He was wearing transition lenses, and we all know how I feel about those. His car was old. The kind of old that looks like rust is eating it from the inside out, like the gross way to eat a Twinkie. His hair was messy, but not intentionally and he wasn’t attractive. He looked like he had some life issues. But he also looked like he was taking some pity on me. His brow was knit with concern (or maybe his lenses hadn’t transitioned enough yet) and he looked like he wanted to reach out to me. This probably should have made me feel better. The kindness of a stranger and all. But it didn’t. It made me scrunch and sob harder because this not-at-all-together person was feeling sorry for me. I scrunched, even harder, to squeeze the tears that had formed a shield outside of my eyeballs. You know, to avoid dying in a fiery car crash and really giving myself something to cry about. Like dads used to say. Or so I’ve heard.
I continued the outburst of tears and deep, desperate gulps of air for the duration of my drive home, which was in the middle of rush hour and full of way too many hurried drivers to be ideal. Not that sobbing hideously is ever ideal. Possibly the most frustrating part is that I’m not sure why I was crying. I’ve been trying to pinpoint my ridiculousness and I’ve realized in the short hour since this went down that I’m simply restless and generally dissatisfied with myself. I’m nowhere I wanted to be. Geographically. Professionally. Socially. Intellectually. Romantically, and every other possible “lly”.
So, why today, you ask? What tipped me over the proverbial edge?
As far as I can tell, it was a combination of things.
I’m 30, which used to mean adult, through and through. People often tell me they’d never guess I was 30, which at first sounds great. But when you think about it, means my actions and the way I carry myself aren’t quite there yet. They don’t say, “I’m a grownup who has her life together”. They say, “I still try to shop at Forever 21 sometimes, watch hours of teen dramas on Netflix, spend crazy time and money on a particular boyband and I live with two roommates because I am incapable of saving money and/or budgeting life on my own.” That takes too long, so people just say I look young. I get it.
Not feeling 30 means that I feel like my life is still loading. I’ve been buffering for too long and now the internet is down. I should have started earlier. My friends are doing great things or have plans and actions to get to their own great things and I just write this blog, complaining instead of trying to do my great things. I feel like I’m not doing a good job at work, which is especially unsavory since I have a non-career that isn’t supposed to fulfill me, it’s supposed to pay for my passion. So I should at least be good at it, right? Or trying to make my passion into something real? (I’m sorry I said passion twice. Now three times. Now that I’m looking at it it’s grossing me out. Like the word “lover”).
What is that pash-uh…dream of mine? Writing, of course. But you knew that part. More specifically, I want to have interesting experiences and write about them so you can have them too. But, I mean…have them as I had them. Not as you. The thing about interesting experiences is that you have to go out and find them. I’m not great at that. Most of the experiences I’d like to have come in the form of expenses. Which is the game-stopper. I recently went off on a complaint-tangent about that very thing via Facebook messenger to a not-that-close friend. She never knew what hit her. And now I’m embarrassed. The root of that tangent was my inability to afford the crazy VIP packages at the upcoming NKOTB, TLC and Nelly extravaganza in GR. “Nobody wants to read my ramblings about sitting in nosebleeds and watching a band I’ve seen ten times already”, I said. “They want to read about me asking Nelly if I can scoop him like a baby.” I need ways to get to Nelly. To the collective Nelly. All of the Nelly’s in my life. How do I get to them?!
There are things in my life that remind me of my age, of course. It’s hard for me to shed pounds, my hair is going silver in a very non-Stacy London kind of way, I look up way too many words on Urban Dictionary and I get hungover easier and for longer. And, Ariana Grande makes me angry. When she comes on the radio I get physically, tangibly angry. I feel it in my body and don’t know what to do with it. She should stop. Or at least use her tongue when she sings her mushed up words.
I needed a scapegoat for my stressmotionings so I’m pinning it on Ariana for now. At least if she retaliates I won’t be able to understand what she’s saying.