Two weeks ago, I turned a scary age.
I mean, it was my Birthday, and I will always always love that day unabashedly no matter what happens (and will continue to announce its approach 4 weeks in advance, if not earlier). But.
This was the last Birthday of my 20s.
...Kinda terrifying.
I took a good long hard look at myself in the bathroom mirror late late late that Saturday night/early early early that Birthday morning:
There I stood, with layers of alpha-hydroxyness on my mug, all of this pro-baby's bottomesque moisture and anti-wrinkleness. I feel like I maybe potentially still have the face of a 24 year-old (25...maybe...). And no, my hair is not turning brittle or falling out (I have SO much hair), and no, nothing is even somewhat drooping or sagging (sweet jesus, thank you).
But.
Fact remains, much to my chagrin: I am getting older.
(...Don't. Tell. Anyone.)
And, frankly, I don't feel like doing it.
And so, while standing there staring myself down in the bathroom mirror at 3:30am, I made the conscious decision to fight against it, this aging thing, and actively. All year long.
I had no idea what that meant, but I felt great about it, and slept like the baby that I was but a mere 29 years prior.
When I woke up 6 hours later thinking that my voice had dropped like 9 octaves overnight, my teeth felt abnormally weak and that I should probably start thinking about a life insurance policy, I decided to establish a more definite plan of attack.
I ran back to the bathroom mirror, and waited to be enlightened.
...
...
...(staring ahead at myself all blankly) You're bad at this, all of a sudden.
...
...This is dumb.
...
...
It then occurred to me that my roommates might be waiting for the bathroom and would know that I'm in there just kinda like staring at myself, and I started to feel ultra lame and kinda shameful and...EUREKA!!!
What if I seek out a different way to make myself uncomfortable every day? Antsyness and discomfort can keep you feeling young because....you're unsettled. Ish. RIGHT?! ...
...It's a start. Done.
And off I went in search of discomfort.
The day began gloriously. We were hosting an intimate little drunken Birthday-brunch, and the mimosas and conversations were flowing all afternoon. We bounced back and forth between discussions on early-90s hip-hop, the Buffalo Bills being perpetual heartbreakers (...I'm still scowling...), donuts, daiquiri drive-thrus, and the best Brooklyn-neighborhoods to live in right this second right now.
Eventually, however, (and as is often the case), we got talking politics: the walking embarrassment that is Rick Perry, the walking oxymoron that is Marcus Bachmann, Herman Cain quoting Pokemon, Obama and Teddy Roosevelt, and what the shit is going to happen to us between 2012 and 2016.
This is territory that I tend to thrive in. (Ah LOVE it!)
However. I also tend to get really heated when I run into a bullheaded/narrow-minded individual who is daring to contest certain things that--in my very educated and exceedingly liberal personal opinion--just shouldn't be contested. Say educational reform, gay marriage...eliminating student loan debt.
...WHY! WOULD ANYONE! CONTEST THIS?!?!
And yet, there I was, in my living room, with a friend telling me how many topics were more pressing, how irresponsible most people with student loan debt were, how those without scholarships should have worked harder, or only gone to school part-time, or not gone to grad school, or not gone to school at all.
And I. Was. Furious.
Furious in my living room on my Birthday and UNCOMFORTABLE (!!!)...but uncomfortable and decidely stressed-out and cornered in a bizarre way. I was blowing it, blowing it!, this was not going at all the way I had been aiming for it to while staring in my bathroom mirror 3 hours prior.
(New topic, new topic, new topic...)
..."...So, are they really building that Whole Foods in Gowanus or is it all just talk?"
Yeah, and anybody want a cream puff?
Uncomfortability, 1. Angela, zip.
...This was not working at all. I needed to further refine my search in such a way that I would stay away from becoming abrasive or remotely bristly, because that just can't be good for anybody. And I hate it. And I was certain that I had sprouted crows feet within the past 5 minutes from the sheer stresses of debate and confrontation.
(It's gotta be simpler. ...Maybe I just make a further attempt to like step outside of my little box o'comfort, and take a miniature risk of some kind every day. ... Better. I think... OK, great.)
And thusly, I embarked on Attempt #2. ...The next day.
The next day, I'm walking through Union Square on my way to a lunch meeting. A lunch meeting. Me. Actor-types don't have those. Actor-types will get together over lunch and talk about stuff--headshot photographers, great scripts, and IKEA--but they don't do "meetings", generally speaking. "Meetings" are saved for people who work in offices or classrooms and wear slacks to work. I was about to cross into thoroughly unfamiliar territory.
On top of all of this, I was headed into a lunch meeting with two people that (to my knowledge) I had never met a day in my life: the Director of Alumni Relations and the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences from my grad school. These two people had actually sought me out.
I almost felt important.
I felt far more intimidated. And, UNCOMFORTABLE (!!!), but I didn't know if that was a good thing. Because I didn't know what I was doing. But, onward I pushed, attempting not to judge the two overly full bags on my back exploding with gym/shower/work-stuff, attempting not to think I looked like a hobo, and attempting to feel like I could, in fact, be perfectly cut-out for a lunch meeting. With strangers.
I was open to it.
(I could be that girl, I could wear this hat. Maybe. ...Awkwardly. ...)
And, naturally, it went great because, naturally, I know how to hold a good conversation as I am, naturally, an actor and that's essentially a prerequisite. The idea of the lunch was uncomfortable, the act was...well, it was adult. More. Adult. Huh. ...
UNC = 2, Ange = zip.
We were going backwards. It was stupid and terrible and I was 2 days into 29...and officially aging.
(New approach!...Something.)
Over the next series of days, I meandered the city attempting to think of new things that I could do, new things to try, to take on, to test my levels of comfort and fake myself out and feel youthful. And to look cool. ...I earnestly thought the plan made sense. I thought it was 100% going to work. I was coming up empty.
"Hey, Angela! I heard someone had a Birthday last week..."
Maybeeeeee...
"Happy Belated! Was it fun? How old are you? Twenty-five?"
...You're sweet.
"What, twenty-six?"
Nope.
"Twenty-seven?"
Nope.
"Wait. Ummm...."
Older, my friend, I'm older.
"Oooooh. Oh man. Ouch."
Superb.
Suddenly, I had been 29 for all of one week and three days, and I felt decrepit.
...And then, I began to Christmas-shop.
There are few things that I enjoy more than Christmas shopping. I am not even sort of kidding. I will be that girl that stands in line at a store for 45 minutes with a shit-eating grin plastered across my face all sorts of antsy and excited because I'm getting something perfect and genius and unexpected. (I was that exact girl actually 3 different times this season.) I love the crowds, I love the lights, I love carrying 7 different bags in my hands at once.
And I love waiting until the last minute to do all of this. Every single year. Without fail.
I'm on the train coming home from just such an excursion Wednesday night. I have bags on my lap and in between my legs, and I'm sleepy but cheesing it and attempting to not take up more space than is necessary whilst on the bench. (...Impossible task, by the by.) A young Cobble Hill-type plops next to me and taps me on the shoulder.
"You all done shopping?"
No. Not yet. Tomorrow, though.
She grins all sweetly. "You're loving this."
...I totally am. And I am. No lie.
"That's awesome. I somehow finished like almost 2 weeks ago."
(Nuh-UH!!!) You know, someday I should probably consider that approach. Attempt to be more responsible and exhibit some better kind of time management with myself.
"Meh. If you want."
It sounds smart.
"Honestly, and this might sound lame, I find that getting all of that done early helps me to think about all of the rest of everything earlier, too."
"All of the rest of everything", liiiiiike what? What do you mean?
"Like, I actually get to think about what my resolutions for the New Year are going to be instead of just rushing into them and not committing to them like everyone else does."
Oh. Huh. (Huh...).
"It's kind of a lot to mull over if you really want to do it right, I guess."
Sure. (...)
"Because, you want to think about all of the different things that you want to take on, the new things you want to do for yourself, for sure. But then you also want to think about what you plan on letting go of."
...Wait, what?
"Yeah, like what do you not want to take with you into the New Year? What can you shed?"
(...Eureka.) I have absoultely never considered that before.
"Oh! You should! It's, like, refreshing, it lightens you up. Your burden, if you've got one, You, and...everything."
And I suddenly realized just how much I don't do that. I'm brilliant and consistent with taking new things on, and rarely take the opportunity to let things go. And I should. For once.
I don't need to be as weighed down as I am with stuff. Bags, hats, things-not-done, whathaveyou.
"Merry Christmas!"
You too, have a good one!
And so it goes: onward, with the good fight.
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