Twentysomethinghood

Oh, being a twentysomething.

I'm about to cross the line of just mid-twenties to upper mid-twenties and I'm kind of freaking out, man because this whole growing up this is bologna. Seriously. Who invented this shit? I've got bills on top of bills on top of some cellulite and a handful of wrinkles and WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN? I'm about 90 per cent sure that I spotted a grey hair last week, but my eyesight's so bad I couldn't quite manage to find it to rip it out. There was a time - perhaps not so very long ago - when I thought being a twentysomething was the most glamorous thing in the world. Pfft.

I'm drinking tea, writing this blog with Nair all over my legs and a facemask on. This is so not what I expected the fabulosity of twentysomethighood to be.

A kid YOUNG LADY I used to babysit turned 18 today. WHAT THE WHAT? Is that even possible? Someone stop the world, I need to get off for a minute. I can remember packing up my old Barbie dolls and Polly Pockets - the ones that actually fit in your pocket - to give to this girl when she was preschool-aged. I remember giving her boy advice when I was post-highschool-grad and she was getting ready to enter junior high school. She tweeted a goodbye to her 17th year last night. She has no idea how gone it is.

Because, my gorgeous, young friend... there comes a time in your early adult life when you will find yourself sitting on your bathroom floor attempting an at-home bikini wax (which, FYI, is the dumbest thing you will ever try to do at home, by yourself) and you will also find yourself eating dinner in the bathtub sometimes because you actually don't have enough time to eat and bathe. You will put on a great show of being a grownup, only to call your Mom later because you just totally effed something up and nobody knows how to fix things like a Mom does. And you will undoubtedly sacrifice food that is actually real food with taste so you can buy that fabulous pair of boots and then try to lie to your mother by saying they were on sale. She'll know better.

I think it's a generational thing, this idea that your twenties will be this golden time in your life when everything is roses and everything will just play out magically. It doesn't, and it's not.

But it's amazing and it's worth it. And when all else fails, there is nail polish.

A Case of the Mondays

I'm sure it will come as no surprise that Monday isn't my favourite day of the week.

Who likes the end of the weekend right? How can anyone be excited for another week in the office, especially with temperatures expected to reach 30*C? Hellooooo, that's beach weather and this beach bum hates missing out on all the fun in the sun. But, they're unavoidable. I come face to face with Monday morning every week, so today (after sleeping in a half hour), I decided to make the most of it.

Instead of dreading my day, I realized it's a blank slate. This whole week is really a blank slate. I can either enjoy it, or not. It's a simple concept, but it's not an easy thing to do.

I easily get caught up in all the things that make Mondays suck.

Red left yesterday.

I have five 10-hour days ahead of me.

I'm tired.

The list goes on, and on, and on...





Never underestimate the power of a Google search to make you smile.

But, I have five days of work ahead of me. I can get a lot done this week. I can make a difference - no matter how small - at each of my jobs.

I woke up today in a big, comfortable bed inside a big, comfortable apartment. More importantly, I woke up today. Healthy. Alive.

I have another week of breakfast at the dining room table with F, in our PJ's. It's also another week of our drive to and from day care, looking for big trucks, "ambliances", and city street sweepers. Another week of reading books before bed.

It's going to be a hot, sunshine-y week and I'll be in an air-conditioned office during the brunt of the heat, and out walking with F and the dog when the sun is setting. Beautiful.

They may be small blessings, but they are blessings nonetheless.

Chance

I’ve grown to be pretty cautious over the years.

Once upon a time, I would ride my bicycle as fast as I could down the driveway – feet out to the sides, wind blowing in my face – and I wouldn’t worry a hair on my little head. It was fun, and I was carefree. I used to venture out and try things from playing a new sport to learning new information and then, one day, the fear of failure and disappointment and hurt instilled itself deep within my once carefree self.

And now I’m not so carefree. I don’t take chances any more. I analyze the bejeezus out of everything. I doubt. I question my own decisions and I won’t even get into the lack of faith I have in the decisions of others.

It was years of analyzing and questioning before I filled out those seemingly simple sheets of paper, moving frantically because I was so afraid I’d change my mind.  I was chancing it.

I wrote the letter. I took a chance – risking my fragile heart breaking again. What if there came no reply?

It’s been more than six months, and I’m not sorry I did it but I moved faster than I was prepared to and felt my comfort zone disappear as things began happening at the speed of light. So I put on the brakes. No more. I couldn’t.

Until I realized that I might not have the chance again. Time won’t wait for me to be ready. It can’t wait. Life moves on, and passes us by and chances escape us. Can I take that chance?

Can I risk the meltdown I’m sure will come from meeting my birth family on short notice – in under 48 hours? Can I live with the regret I might always have if I didn’t go in the 11^th hour, when there may never be another opportunity?

These are the things that no one ever prepares you for. There’s no book on how to cope with adoption disclosure. There are no rules. No “What to Expect” literature as you venture into it all.

Unless you’ve ever looked in the mirror and wondered who you are and where you come from, you can’t understand. And the only thing harder than that, is when you look at the little person who is a part of you and wonder what parts of them you don’t know, because you don’t even recognize those parts in yourself.

What if this is my only chance to know?

Grownup

I'm inclined to believe that society might have screwed me up.

This applies to many things, to be sure, but I've found that our youth (a group I'm rapidly outgrowing my membership of) have a very skewed perception of matters related to um, not being a youth. The dreaded G word.

Grownup.

Yuck, right? I know. Sigh. If I rewind 10 or 15 years, I thought 25 was old. Mature. Grownup. Probably a sweet age to be... and in many ways, I was right. I love being 25 and if I could, I might even try to stay 25 for 5 or 10 years because that's about how long it takes for you to be ready to be older than 25, from what I can tell.

I was sure that 25 meant owning a sweet car, my own home, and having a kick ass job making loads and loads of money.

Thanks, society.

At 18, I graduated high school and went to university with that in my head. I had no flipping idea what I wanted to be when I grew up, and sometimes I still don't. I went off to university, no more than a fetus, and I felt lost for six years until I decided to pursue my passion.

For the first time in my life, I leave work happy. I go to work happy. I am happy at work.

I love my job. My career. And I probably won't stay on this path forever.

If I had known this simple truth a long time ago, I could have avoided a lot of stress and anxiety and disappointment. As my friends' younger siblings, and our baby cousins and family friends' kids graduate high school, I hope they all realize this:

 It's OK if you don't know what you want to be when you grow up. You'll figure it out in your own time.

That's life, society. It's growing up as you go along.