At what point did I become a grown up

I don't know when it happened, but I'm not sure I like it. Somewhere along the line I became responsible. Had a steady job for more than 5 years. Have "savings." Debate whether or not a new hoodie is a necessary purchase. Plan for a well balanced meal. Or egads! Actually got rid of some of the tank tops and tshirts that had been my uniform for years.

But at the same time, that other part of me thinks I'm really still fifteen. I bought a pair of red converse because Gwen Cooper wore them the first season of Torchwood. Wearing pigtails (when my hair allowed it) was the norm. I like the big blockbuster comic book movies that have become the style each summer. I still laugh at stupid jokes. And I still have a fine appreciation for The State.

I am not sure when this all happened. It shocked me this week when I was told I look my age. I have never looked my age. When I was a kid, I looked older. And when I was 24 I would get carded buying cigarettes. And now, I "look my age." I was assured that was not a bad thing. The exact quote was

"You look like someone in her late 20s/early 30s."

Granted, I know that's not old. But that also means that when I consider dating someone the age range is not 25-30. But 35-40. And THAT is a scary consideration. When did that become my demographic? My knee jerk reaction is that I couldn't consider a 39 year old to grasp my pop cultural references. Until I realize that "OH MY GOD, I HAVE THE SAME POP CULTURAL REFERENCES AS A 39 YEAR OLD!!!"

Rationally, I know this is not old. I know that I'm only a scary eight years away from that number. I know that I best get along with people older than me in most aspects of life. I know that I've always been beyond responsible and together in this life. And in that respect have always acted more mature than my years might be. I also know that in the great scheme of things 31 is pretty freakin young.

But if we all thought rationally, where would the fun be in that? There would be no more late night mind ramblings. There would be no more over reactions to simple things in life. Goodbye to overthinking how that date went. And that life, while calm and serene, would be a little bit boring methinks.

I'm doing my best to remember that there are plusses to being a grown up. I can get on any ride at the amusement park. I can buy myself things without worrying about having to ask mom or dad for money. I own a car I dig (Hi Severus!) I am respected in my field and people actually seek out my opinion. (That is also a shocking moment in the growing up.) I've had a lot more time to better form my opinions on life and thoughts. I grew up with some of the better pop cultural experiences. (The State, Tommy Boy, Colin Firth as Darcy, Edward Scissorhands, Buffy - the way vampires should be, Green Day)

While I still do not know when it happened or how, I'm grateful for these little things. I also really like the little crinkles around my eyes when I smile.

And while this song doesn't quite fit this post, it's been in my head all week. The Todd Snider obsession will be here all summer. Stay tuned.

The only way to end a crappy day ...

No not a nice long run. Or a bottle of wine. Or a nice comforting bath. Or a favorite meal.

But by going to see To Kill A Mockingbird and running into Team Paul.

First things first - today sucked. I had my annual gyn appointment. I am not a good patient. I get nervous easily. And tense up. These are things that do not make a gyn appointment go smoothly. So it was horrible. I will spare the details But I hated it. And it sort of soured the day.

Secondly, work is in a weird phase. It's something I don't really want to get into too much here because I can't. But I'm starting to worry about the future. My future. Which is making me do A LOT of thinking. About my future. About what I'm doing. About what I want to do. About why it is I am doing what I am doing. And that's not fun.

Thirdly, To Kill A Mockingbird was awesome. Matthew Modine was incredible as Atticus and I remembered how much I absolutely loved that book as a kid and as a teen. I read it every few years. I'd love to say that because of that book I became a lawyer. It's not. But it did inspire me to work on my own writing as a kid. And I was obsessed with Jem and Scout. I thought Jem was a super awesome big brother. And my guitar is named Scout.

And Lastly, sitting two rows down and about three seats to the left was Team Paul and his partner. I spent the show hiding my face behind my program. Jess was completely entertained. But, I was terrified of what I might say or do. In my chick flick version of life I would run into him or spill a drink on myself or spill a drink on him or hit on his partner or say something really embarrassing out loud. In real life, I waited until after the show and walked out to the aisle and smiled. Said hello. Met his partner. Introduced Jess. And walked out. Oh and also in real life he is behind me in the parking garage where Jess and I laughed out loud about the coincidence of meeting into him there. And I jumped up and down about something.

Yeah. Somehow despite the mortification this was the best way to end this horrible day.

Old words

This is something I wrote a while back.  About a week before my mom died, in fact.  I always toyed with putting it out somewhere.  I never knew where or why, but I think it's a good fit here.  It is in fact, all about the crazy random happenstances that roll around in my brain.  Which, honestly sometimes scare the crap out of me. But more than the crazy randomness of my thinking, it's also frighteningly accurate to how I feel right now. My brain is still rolling around with a lot of these thoughts. I could update it now, but I don't want to distort the words. This was my life then. My life now might follow in a couple days.  

But this goes back to early October 2008.  I had just fallen deeper for Team Paul.  I had begun the obsession with gluten free baking.  And I was beginning to become frighteningly aware of how crazy my thought processes could be.  A friend read this back then and called it somewhat prophetic. I don't like such words. I don't know if I quite believe in the idea of "prophetic." It's too mystical for me. I think it's predictable. I also sort of think that when I write without paying attention to form or matter, I tend to write pretty damn good. It's when I overthink the words that I kill it. And no one wants to read dead words. (Um, pun is totally intended.)

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I hugged my childhood crush this week. We even shared a quick kiss. It happened at his father’s wake. And it was probably inappropriate to get a thrill over this at that time, but I did.

I’ve had a crush on Anthony since I was ten. Or since I was old enough to realize what crushes were. He never really saw me as more than just that lil’ girl across the street that obnoxiously jumped in the pile of leaves he just spent all morning raking. I’m assuming that of course. I never actually asked him what he thought of me as a ten year old.

He is the same as my brothers. I am sure I was nothing more than an annoying little sister like person to him. He too has a story about being my babysitter once. I remember looking for pictures of Anthony in my brother’s high school yearbook and not my brother. I was sad when he moved away for college. I was jealous that he married.

I had my first real conversation with him on August 23, 1992. Earlier that Sunday morning, my mother had collapsed while making coffee and was rushed to the hospital. I had been driven home from the hospital and Anthony was in his drive way. He walked over to ask me what happened.

I remember, even then, being amazed at how calm I was. I didn’t giggle. I didn’t find myself twirling my hair. I didn’t step from foot to foot. And I definitely did not stammer. I clearly told him my mother was in a coma and no one knew what was wrong. He said, “Wow.” I remember writing about that day in my diary that night and that I included that conversation. It marked in many ways a loss of innocence and a loss of childhood. Carrying on an adult conversation with an adult male that I had a crush on was a big moment for my fourteen year old brain. But this is just my overly analytical brain overly thinking getting carried away looking back at the one moment in my life.

This week, standing in that funeral home saying goodbye to his father I thought about my past feelings. The feelings stayed in the fore of my thoughts as I approached the family line and offered my condolences. As I stood across from Anthony, we hugged. The hug lingered a bit. But maybe that was all in my head.

My father frustratingly moved away from the line much too quick and called me over to introduce me to an old friend. Anthony said goodbye. And I walked away upset at not sharing a longer conversation with this man who grew more attractive every year and looked amazing in a suit. But, again, not an appropriate place or time for these thoughts. Especially as his wife and child came to stand by him.

I sat in my chair on the other side of the room pondering my life. This entire week had been a fascinating study in how my brain functions. I’d spent the week ogling the new boss of my boss. And by ogling, I mean, complete and utter adoration of the man as a public speaker that I could not stop referring to as my candidate for hope and change.

If you can’t control thinking about that childhood crush at inappropriate times, you can’t really control developing a crush on a super suave political operative that happens to fall on the other side of the political spectrum? After hearing him speak a week ago, I have wanted to make up Team Paul t-shirts and wear one proudly. I told my boss I was ready to quit my job as an attorney and be his personal assistant. I would be sure to get his coffee order correct.

And now when I have to talk to him, I get a case of the giggles. Or the stammering. Or the hair twirling. Or the complete incoherence. I become my ten year old self talking to Anthony across the street.

I snap out of this strange circle of thought when my dad begins telling our other neighbor about his bypass. I correct him. Angioplasty. Not a bypass.

It’s almost as if he’d rather it be the more serious condition. He gets glory in talking about it. When I diminish it and say it was nothing more than an angioplasty, his face falls. I’m not quite sure what that is about. It’s almost like he wants it to be a bigger deal. It’s not like an angioplasty is not a big deal. But, bypass sounds way more important and impressive to him. Or he just can’t remember the word “angioplasty.” Whichever it is, I feel the need to correct him because I don’t want our neighbors reporting to other neighbors that my dad had a quadruple bypass and is in dire straits and might die tomorrow. When, in reality, he had an angioplasty with a stent put in to address an artery that was 90% blocked. He was in the hospital for 30 hours. And four of those were spent waiting for the nurse to complete the discharge papers.

Serious? Yes. Grave? No. But maybe grave isn’t the word to use while at a funeral.

I get choked up at funerals. It happens. I know why. I can pin point the exact reasons why I start fighting the urge to shed tears and fall apart even when I barely know the guy. The psycho analysis for this is not that difficult. The thought in my head is always “we’re next.” But I really shouldn’t dwell on that. So I won’t. But I do take notes. To prepare. Like the music. I wonder what music funeral homes allow you to pick from. Could I get some Dean Martin playing for my mom? I think on Six Feet Under the Fishers let you play whatever music you wanted. But Peter Krause would also greet me at the door.

It’s all too much sometimes. My dad wanting a bigger injury. My mom being sick all the time. Me crushing on a gay Republican who is indirectly my boss and I accidentally called a girl that one time. It’s a lot, you know. And I’m amazed my brain doesn’t explode. But we are a resilient species. Truly. It’s amazing. We’re designed to withstand so much – both physically and internally.

My dad tapped me on the shoulder and I remembered I was still at Luigi’s wake. He motions to leave and my thoughts close down temporarily as I begin my goodbyes. I play with my cellphone as I walk to my car as I chauffer this week while my dad recovers from his non-bypass procedure.

I’m sure the bizarre train of thoughts that has marked this week of emotional ups and downs and possibly hormonal rages will spark back up later this night. Perhaps I’ll plan my future as a gluten free baker extraordinaire. Perhaps Team Paul can help that dream happen. Maybe I just need to get him some of my gluten free chocolate chip hazelnut cookies. Maybe I need to focus on my rock star dreams and work on that strumming pattern I stubbornly refused to practice in my lesson this week. I think Anthony played guitar once up on a time. Maybe Team Paul plays as well. Could you imagine?