Thoughts on My 31st Birthday

FACT: You look 80% more contemplative
when wearing glasses. (Me on my birthday)

I just turned 31 and I've got to say that it was a bit harder than turning 30. Age feels like a crippling number in our society. Hit a certain number and BOOM! You're expired. Off the shelf. Not a contender. But it's not just the number that's bothering me.

I'm a very introspective person. Like many, I am my worst enemy and my harshest critic. I had my first “midlife” (tenth-life?) crisis when I turned 10. I berated myself endlessly because I had lived a whole decade (ten infinitely long years) and had absolutely nothing to show for it. Absolutely nothing.

But I digress . . .

Just after the new year, someone asked about my new year's resolutions. I said that in 2014 I want to hate myself less. She laughed. I laughed. But it was true.

I'm all about process improvement. I'm working towards being a person I can be proud of. I am a work in progress and some days we make more progress than others.

Many people wish “a happy birthday,” but beyond the general fun birthday happiness of cake and parties I thought about what “wishes” I would like for myself in the next year. I gotta say, wish I could buy this stuff on Amazon Prime.

Here are some “wishes” and general ponderings for myself in my 31^st year.

I want to have the passion of the heart not to give up so easily when things get tough.

I want to face “failure” and not flinch. I want “failure” to be something that I don't give a crap about.

On that note … I want to give myself permission to fail. Permission to suck. Permission to start at the bottom … because I know that I will get better.

In addition to introspection, cake happened!

I want to go for the “big” goals. I want to chase after something really amazing and go forward despite the fear.

I want to be less afraid. And where there is fear, I want to Do The Stuff despite the fear.

The unknown is never going to completely go away. I can't wait for everything to be totally clear before I do something.

I want the courage to speak what's on my mind … and then the thoughtfulness to speak in a way that people will understand.

I want to be someone that after I'm dead people will remember me for more than just fart jokes or purple hair.

Not everyone is going to be a fan and that's ok. I can't please everyone – and really? There are a few people out there that I really don't want to make happy.

More often than not, I want laziness to be a condiment - not the main dish - of my days.

Birthday roses from my husband.

Hey, it's ok to write something contemplative and melancholy (like this post). Life isn't all fart jokes and unicorns.

Don't give headspace to jerks. They don't deserve that much screentime.

I give myself permission to return books to the library without having read them. Let go of the things that make you feel trapped in obligation.

Anyway. Those are just a few of the things rattling around in my head this year, but never fear! All of this contemplative introspection and occasional self-loathing came with traditional birthday “wishes” like blueberry lemon cake and roses from my husband.

Labels Are For Boxes, Not People (AKA The Post Where I Get Rant-y)

We put labels on boxes so we can know what's inside. The labels are there so we can evaluate what's inside the box without looking, learning, or investigating for ourselves. We take for granted that the label is all we need to know.

How often do we do the same to people? We quickly label them and decide their “worth” by whatever quick label comes to mind.

      Unemployed. Employed. Poor. Rich. Middleclass. Upper class.

When was the last time you sized someone up based upon a quick label?

      Fair skinned. Dark skinned.

Do you put labels on people and take for granted that you know all you need to know?

      Introvert. Extrovert.

After nearly 10 years of marriage, I can tell you that I am still learning about my husband and he is still learning about me. Believe me when I say: In the most intimate of relationships, with open sharing, we can still misjudge each other.

      Fat. Skinny. Health nut. Junk food addict. Vegetarian.

So, why do we think we have strangers all figured out by a simple label? Why do we presume to guess the motives of others based on a label?

      Sinner. Saint. Bigot. Religious. Athiest. Agnostic.

When you put someone in a box with a neat little label you stop learning about them.

       Republican. Democrat. 

Don't label and certainly don't stop learning.

      Highschool education. Higher education.

The nature of human beings is that they will surprise you. We aren't meant to be kept in a box.

You are the sum of your life experiences, the choices you make, and the people you influence. Not the sum of the labels society places on you.

One day, can we just stop evaluating someone's worth all together?

You are a person. You live, you breathe, you matter. Full stop.

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POST SCRIPT BLAH BLAH BLAHS:

I don't consider this to be an end-all-be-all on the topic of labels in any way. This is just a brief introduction to the giant Rant-y Land I wander into when we talk about labels and putting people in boxes. This topic started with this tweet or the tweet started the topic? Chicken vs. egg. Any way.

Legit Box I don't mind if you put me in.

He wants my Bones

I can see him watching me. His dark, piercing eyes rolled in his head to watch me as I moved about. His head never moved, except to suddenly cock to the side occasionally to examine me from another angle. He wants to eat me. I know it. He's thinking about the taste of my flesh. He can't wait to tear into my skin. I should run. Maybe I can get inside before he comes after me. Maybe he'll find someone else who looks tastier. Really, I've consumed so much diet soda I probably taste like aspartame. God, I hate birds.

* * * * *

The above is my first attempt at a drabble, a fiction of exactly 100 words. Needs work I'm sure, but I wrote it during the sermon at church, so that's gotta say something. I hate birds. My husband's family has a bird. Birds are like cats: they sense the ones who don't want them around and camp out on their person. I'm scared of birds. Their skittering little feet remind me of roaches. Big roaches with talons and a mean beak. (His family has a cockatiel so my imaginings don't quite meet with reality.) Husband's cockatiel liked to land on my head, and then his feet would get caught in my hair. The bird would panic. I was already panicking. Panicking ensued on several sides. Yeah, I hate birds. Even outdoor ones scare me. But, at least outdoor birds generally want to stay away from you. Though, for some reason there are great big black birds that hang out near our home. They sit in the trees and watch me when I go to the mailbox or get in the car. Once, I was unpacking my trunk and the bird cawed at me. My first – instant – response was to call out, “I'm not dead yet!” Dirty, mangy scavenger birds.