I turn 32 years old today, which is how old my mother was when she had me.
Turning 31 was a little scary, because it was the first year of just settling in to the *thirties.*
So I’ve settled now. A bunch of days passed. I turned 32.
I would like 32 to be the year that I make some good headway at being a grown-up.
It’s time to find a new job. One that I love. One that inspires me to work hard again.
I’d like to get a handle on my finances. I won’t be able to clear it up in a year. But I would like to be able to say in a year’s time that I’m in a better place that I’m in today. Laughable as it may be, I’d like to have a thousand dollars in my special savings account nicknamed “house savings – do NOT withdraw!”
I hope to be a good, reliable partner. I have such welling for the David. I need to learn to have patience and care for this person who can not read my mind and isn’t here just to agree with me.
I could keep listing the things that I want to do, want to improve upon. But I also don’t want to set up the expectation that is the year of self help. Because I rather like the self I have.
thirty second birthday
Yesterday was the one year anniversary of our first date.
While I wax poetic on how lucky I am and how happy I’ve been, the fellow is off in Yosemite for a long weekend and I’m actually feeling rather mournful. I miss him.
Because he basically lived at my apartment, we made the decision a while back that David would move in with me. We picked February 1 as the official date, and then we pretty much did nothing about it. So that his old apartment still had a bunch of stuff in it and he felt obligated to pay his room mate there for the month’s rent.
After we conceded that we really needed to take a weekend off of Tahoe-ing to make this happen, we set a new deadline for the official move-out/move-in as March 1. And so, I watched him sort through lots of stuff, determining what could be thrown away and what should be relegated to one of his various hiking backpacks to bring over. Said backpacks are now in piles throughout the apartment, mingling happily with the piles of totes-o-crap that I collected from my towed away car on Sunday. There is a certain charm rendered by a pile, at least in my apartment, anyway.
I keep saying “You’re my room mate!” to David. And it feels funny. Grown-up. Even though I’ve already done this part. But I amazed that it is real. That he wants to live with me and my bonkers cat. (Speaking of which, observations of David and Maple could, and maybe will, be a whole separate post.) I get a person who makes decisions about what to eat for dinner. And puts up shelves. With a drill(!) no less. A person who will pair my socks. A person who will even go looking around in all the places that I might be inclined to discard socks, when it is time to do laundry. I get to live with a person who will always want to sneak onto my side of the bed, no matter how big that bed might be.
P.S. He also wipes the fogged-up bathroom mirrors with toilet paper, the lintiest material known to mankind.
A strange thing has happened: my Toyota Echo was stolen and I simply don’t have a car any more. I had one. And now I don’t.
This past weekend, I picked up a check from Progressive, in essence, having sold the non-existent car to my insurance company. In a really disappointing turn of responsibility, I’ve decided to hand the check over to some credit cards and make a real concerted effort to do some debt reduction.
So I don’t have a car, and I don’t have a prospect for a new car, and I also don’t have a pair of Tiffany earrings or a trip to Greece.
That Toyota Echo was the first car I bought myself. Mom and Dad did give me $3000 for the deposit, but after that I forked over the $255 every month for 5 years. I cried in the process of agreeing to make the purchase, as I was terrified of the commitment. At 22 years old, 5 years of payments seemed like a very long time. But I did it. I even finished a few months early.
I keep thinking of the poor little Echo trying to make friends with the mean, scary cars in the ghetto. Or maybe the Echo has just been totally mangled and all of his important parts have been removed, leaving a sad little shell. And what did they to my Dave Matthews sticker?
This car mostly got me to and from Whole Foods, or the West Oakland BART station. It takes me to my weekly session of UGH, otherwise known as my cello lesson. Jessica and I drove it to Las Vegas once and another time to San Luis Obispo.
But when I start thinking of car memories, they generally go farther back… to Red Car and to Gordy. Both of those cars were 10 to 15 years old when they came into my life and they both died in my posession. Both of them were the types of cars to just crap out while I was driving them, leaving me frantically trying to restart as I edged through the toll plaza or down the main drag of my college town. Thus, was I motivated to buy myself a brand new car and never suffer the tragedy of car death again. So some cars die and others are kidnapped.
I am turning 31 today. It’s a prime number. And odd. And sort of like 30, except one year later. So a lot less momentous and a lot more generic In-My-30’s style.
I’m not freaking out. I’m actually a little bored.
But in an effort to try and give myself a little yay, I have been wearing nothing but green dresses all week. And I have two more planned for tomorrow and Friday. In fact, I have enough green dresses that I could keep going for a few days after that, as well. So green dresses it is. Self indulgent in a mildly bizarre way, I guess, but that’s what I want.
Dinner tonight with my best girl and my best boy.
Drinks on Friday with whoever might deign to show up.
And then a whole lotta days of just being 31. Hopefully, an excellent version of it, though.