Image via WikipediaA lot has changed and has continued to change on this blog since its inception. I write a hell of a lot more frequently, I try to tackle universal issues more often than I used to, try to write less about the mundane ins and outs of my days. My readership has changed and continues to change.
The basic premise remains unchanged, however. This is still my place that I come to when I feel the need to point something out. This is still my haven for writing whimsy. These are still my notes on pop culture, modern life, fashion, the arts, and being a young writer. Especially being a young writer-- that is who I am, the lens through which I see the world, and it goes everywhere with me.
My present situation is not too different from what is was this time last year-- when I was downsized, had my quarter-life crisis, and started taking this blog seriously. I am not working at my dream job, I'm not even interning to learn how to work at my dream job. I am making moves to get there, but it's a very competitive struggle. All I can do is keep reapplying.
I look at other people my age and older and I wonder if I'll ever be like them. They always seem so much more grown-up, mature, and I'm not talking about their demeanor but they way that they dress and the lavish lifestyles they keep. I feel like a little kid in my hoodie and flats waiting in line at Starbucks behind these ladies with their Louis Vuitton handbags, their red-bottomed Louboutins, their expensive and detailed trench coats-- their materialism puts my childish wardrobe to shame.
Worldly things aside, I was always considered mature for my age. My granddad in England called me a "very serious" four year old, he enjoyed talking with me about philosophies and the universe. Old soul, wise beyond her years, precocious are all terms I've heard others use to describe me. And I do feel like an old soul. When I was little I usually had more fun with the adults than with my peers.
When my parents had dinner parties I would come down to the dining room in my pajamas to sit with the grown-ups and listen to them talk. I had a voice at these events, much more so than at the chaotic parties of my peers with tons of kiddies running around and screaming-- I would, at these screechfests, find a friend to ride the party out with, or go with the flow and let my mind go elsewhere.
At 25 I am still this little girl. The way I speak and carry myself says "grown-up," but my appearance and position in life say "twelve year old." I have credentials, I have experience, but what else will it take to move on to that next stage? The cynicism, the seriousness, if that's part of being a grown-up then I'm halfway there. There will probably always be some lingering childishness about me but that's all right. I would be sad if I ever lost my sense of wonderment and appreciation of cartoons.
I believe what I am looking for is success-- that is the missing piece to my maturity puzzle. I already have the self-confidence to back me up, but I want to feel like my work is worth doing. If I find success in what I enjoy doing, is that self-actualization?
When making small talk the dreaded question is always, "So, what do youuuu do?" I usually make something up, say that I'm a jazz pianist or marine biologist (thanks for that one, Seinfeld), because I'm too embarrassed to say that "I'm just a temp," or "I'm currently unemployed but I blog like a madwoman." I'd call myself a writer, but then I get the inevitable follow-up of "Oh, what novels have you written?" I've been published in quite a few literary journals and small-press prints, but nothing the average stock-market-slut would know of. No matter what I say, I will usually get a raised eyebrow and then a look of pity or disgust in response. It never fails.
Do grown-ups pose with nativity scene finger puppets? Photo of me circa 2006, when I started this blog.
How do you feel about growing up?
Do you feel like a little kid in a room full of boring adults?
And yes, the title of this post is a Blink 182 reference.
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