In the past three days since 2010 rolled in, my thoughts and emotions have been all over the place. Mainly because I can’t decide if I want to be (or should be or need to be) 18 years old, 28 which will soon turn into 29, 38, maybe even 68. I feel like I’ve been all of those ages in the past 72 hours and man has it been confusing.
Yesterday I woke up at the senior-citizen hour of 5 am. When I wake up this early, I see my 60-something neighbors coming home from their grocery shopping. Thankfully I am not grocery shopping at this hour (don’t put it past me) but going out running. Give me 40 years and I’ll be shopping. Getting up for this daily aerobic activity requires me to go to bed by 10pm, missing all good TV. I know, I know. DVR, Lynn. D.V.R. I’m working on it.
So there’s me at 68.
Jump to later yesterday afternoon, Jill and I head to the Galleria, a mall outside the five-mile radius I try very hard to stay within in Dallas. Who knew this mall was so awesome? The second-to-last store we hit up was the enormous Forever 21, i.e. XXI. Jill and I went in to find the near-impossible: The Going Out Shirt. Part of the New Years Rezos for 2010: Go out more. So we needed shirts. Where better to dress our sophisticated, classy selves than XXI.
There’s me at 18.
Hunting through XXI and dodging the likes of ourselves both younger and older (makes me feel much better) we basically decided the following:
We feel better when we wear clothes we like. The clothes we like sometimes look like clothes from the 80s, Goodwill, a Journey concert, the closet of a color-blind person, or a 21 year old (or 31 year old) hipster. These same clothes are also worn by 1. the coolest people we work with (I know Mom, coolness means nothing and we shouldn’t try to emulate others) 2. our bosses 3. the people we look up to in our industries 4. everyone else in our industry who doesn’t work in our un-advertising-like office.
I bought an awesome sweatshirt, among other things. And I will wear the heck out of it. And I will be 28 when I do so. And I will feel really good that day, in my pegasus sweatshirt and converse, and I will most likely do my best work that day, and like my job more that day, and go home happier that day.
Mixing it up. The tomboy with the hipster with the chic. Done. Me at 28. Fantastic. And I’ll still rock the painful heels, just not with the blazer from Banana and the pearls (not like this is a new revelation about myself, just saying).
Still on my retail therapy high, I met up with four other fabulous ladies for some wine later that night. And what did the five of us discuss? Cooking. Casseroles. Campbell’s soup recipes and how amazing and easy they are to make. Recipes our moms made. Our early bedtimes. How much we enjoy Scrabble.
I mean, what’s next? I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of us said, “Hey, I have to run. Gotta pick little Johnny up from soccer practice and take the minivan into the shop.”
So, there’s me at 38.
What I’ve come to realize, thanks to the help of my good friends and endless hours of holiday vacay time with which I’ve reflected, is that I am really lucky. All my friends are. We are free. Drama-free. Child-free. Free from anyone who makes us check in or check out. We do what we like. We make enough to support ourselves. We can wear just about whatever we please to work, and some of us can even cruise in with the top down and the latest indie rock (or whatever it is kids these days listen to) blasting.
Remind me to re-read this in a couple weeks. Like, say, January 20th. OK thanks.
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