Apparently 29 is the age where you start telling teenagers sitting and blocking a narrow stairwell that "maybe this isn't the best place to sit."
|Hot yoga 3x/week, 3 mile run 2x/week,|
I turned 29 a few weeks ago, but my girlfriend says I'm actually thirty now because since you are born at age zero you are really celebrating the completion of the previous year. Whatever the case, I'm older than I was yesterday and younger than I am tomorrow but still just a missed breath or misstep from not existing at all.
So I guess I'm not growing out of my neurosis... or my asthma.
Which is good because I'm able to afford private insurance to cover both medicines to manage my flaws: Xanax and Advair. In fact, I'm able to afford a lot of things nowadays that I couldn't three years ago when I was a Bohemian in New York City and decided to leave "the biz" in pursuit of travel and financial freedom.
Now I find myself firmly established in another "biz" having learned that it's all biz and while I'm good at this biz I miss the old biz but am scared at returning to the old and failing but the new biz has become sad and morally taxing and I look at my unfolding adulthood wondering, Is this it? Is this what the next five minutes or five days or fifty years of my life will be like?
Because the things that I've touched that have turned to gold are not necessarily the things I want to be touching. But still, it's fucking gold. And I know I'm fortunate to have it, but man, I'm tired of covering terrorism. I've learned a lot on this beat and it's provided me with ample opportunity, but it's hard to smell the fruits of your labor when you're constantly wading through a septic tank of the shittiest aspects of "humans."
So I'm not gonna wade through it anymore. I'm going to swim in it. Because this is my life. And while sometimes all I want to do is go home to Minnesota, I know that isn't the answer. I have read enough and had lived far too many places to know that.
I have to swim in shit because while I've been dodging drinking poop milkshakes, it provides me the means to take class and write for myself. And somehow, miraculously, that energy I've been using to trudge through diarrhea water has given me the grit to do more of that and do it better. The universe has responded.
In April, an old agent of mine emailed me a request for an audition for a new play. I booked it. And last week, I finished my book I've been writing for the past six years, Samson's First Haircut. All things I wanted to do before I was thirty (or celebrate the completion of my thirtieth year, whatever, Belinda.)
Thoreau wrote in Walden, "It is surprising and memorable, as well as a valuable experience, to be lost in the woods any time."
I may have spent the last couple years in Willy Wonka's scat fetish uncle's Poop Forest, (who wants that golden ticket?) but I've been swimming in fertilizer.
Let's find some seeds and make shit grow.