I want to tell someone there’s a significant change that happens when you hit your 30s. It’s not puberty #2 or anything, but you do feel it physically. Fatigue starts settling in on your body a lot faster and it takes you longer to recover, making you acutely aware you are no longer in your 20s.
I’m going through this now, even though it’s been two years since I hit 30. It takes a minute for 30 to sink in. It really does. I wanted to share in case anyone is about to go through this or can relate. Feeling tired easily is not a fun feeling, but after you are done with your 20s, you realize you’ve learned so many lessons the dumb, hard way. You appreciate the lessons, but they make you especially thankful you are done with your 20s.
Proceed with caution. My biggest fear right now is rambling too much. I really don’t know if that’s a typical 30s thing, but it seems to be a typical YuMin thing, whatever age she is. Maybe it’s just a part of me, but I can’t shake it, so I reluctantly let it stay. It’s like I have all this word vomit I must share due to previously mentioned lessons. Older, wiser, prouder?
You’re a good person at the core, but you’re pulled by your dark side all the time to do dark things. You’re not sure how you get pulled since you know deep down you’re good. It’s like someone else is making you be bad sometimes. That someone else is in you, but is not you. You are aware of its unwelcome, yet overpowering presence. All you want to do is send it away, but no matter what you try it just won’t go away completely. You’re a slave to it sometimes. Other times your mind overpowers it and it becomes a slave to you. That’s the best feeling in the world. Sometimes the feeling becomes such a rush it is something you crave. And that crave for power is intoxicating. The question is, how are you going to use that power?
*this post inspired by The Shannara Chronicles
Writer’s block is a terrible condition. It makes you sniff your nails and try to clean them if they smell off. Distract yourself by watching random music videos. Scratch your hair. Adjust your glasses 531 times. Pick at your temporary tattoo. Pick up hair from the carpet one strand at a time. Fold 1,000 paper cranes. Wait…I don’t think I’m quite at a thousand…
Clean your pencil sharpener. Check Facebook and Twitter. Take out the trash. Fill in your planner for next week. Floss your teeth. Shower.
And then it chases you back to your seat where butt + chair = write.
The feeling of exhaustion consumes me, like imagining what drowning would be like, only without the euphoria. I know how I got here, too, but I can’t even admit it out loud for fear it becomes reality, even though it is my reality.
Perfectionism is a beast you can’t defeat. It rides on your back and keeps your head facing the screen. You must impress the high-brows or else. You must type the right words or enter the right numbers. You must must. Your heart dances, but not in a good way. It wants to grow a pair of legs and run away.
Run away to somewhere it feels safe to be itself. Somewhere no harm can come to it and nothing can tell it to stay in one place, musting into infinity. In this place there’s no beyond. There’s only Groundhog Day.
The days blend together and it’s hard to tell if you’ve been through the trenches already or it’s only just starting. All you know is the feeling of exhaustion.
Sometimes I take a long time to finish reading a book not because it’s not good, but because I don’t want to lose time I get to spend with the characters. I know, sounds silly. Like crazy writer talk. You would think dragging out the story that long would mean I would spend less time with the characters, but dragging it out like that makes me feel like I’m spending more time with them. You see, as long as I haven’t finished the book I can keep thinking about the characters and imagining what they’re going through. Once I finish the book, my time with them is done. Reading to the last page is like shutting the world where my new favorite characters reside and never being able to reach inside that black top hat again.
I had heard of belly dancing while I was at university, but heard of it was the sole extent of my involvement with this type of Egyptian dance. I really had no idea what exactly it was until last summer when I had the opportunity to go with this girl who goes regularly to watch belly dancing at Uptown Arts Bar in KC. Every first Saturday of the month there’s this Arabian nights show at the bar where you can get in with a small cover charge and enjoy whatever you normally get at a bar. That particular night I made a new girl friend, enjoyed a cherry limeade kind of drink that had tequila in it, and learned how to belly dance. Yes, I got called on stage at the end of the show and learned a basic dance move called “pop the car door.” It was amusing and thankfully it’s a small stage so I didn’t get stage fright and I was up there with a bunch of other girls so it was nice to feel like another one in the crowd, learning something new. The first time I had tequila and it allowed me to enjoy watching belly dance in all different body types. I had thought in order to belly dance you had to be one certain body type, but boy was I wrong and I’m glad. Anyone can learn how to belly dance and my favorite was watching this one girl dance to this death metal sounding tune whilst balancing a giant sword on her head. I definitely never imagined I’d witness something like that. I don’t know. These kind of events are hard to describe. You really had to be there. I enjoy going out and trying new things.
You died today. I know nothing about you except that your mother must have accompanied you to every lesson and written down everything you were doing wrong. She smiled at your teacher and then as soon as you were alone with her at home the stern look would make an appearance and everything written down would fly off the page and onto your face, leaving you wondering why someone who doesn’t even know how to hold the bow right could believe she’s good at everything, including this. I know you must have practiced ten hours a day or maybe it was two hours every night after school and then work before joining such a prestigious orchestra. That must have been the most nerve-wracking audition of your life, but at least one where you didn’t feel like you had to tell anyone what they wanted to hear about how your audition went because it was all the truth. Your truth. And you were finally ready to tell it. That’s why LA Phil let you in. Your father must have never supported your dream which only made you practice harder, not so much to prove him wrong as so much not wanting to end up like him, skeptical of anything and anyone that didn’t have to do with his immediate family. LA Phil headlines are still here. You died, but your dream stays alive.