three decades, three weeks, three days*.

The eve of my thirtieth birthday, I decided to cut my hair differently than I’ve been cutting it for nearly twenty years. Specifically, in the very same way that I’d cut it for the first ten of my life. I assume this is an indication of the mind games ol’ Father Time has been playing with me- or more accurately, that I have inflicted upon myself– since my twenty-sixth birthday or so (but much earlier if I’m totally honest).

Acting out? Defiance? Denial? Perhaps. What I think I desired (besides the bangs themselves, which I’d considered for the past few years and had been shot down by at least three different hairstylists) was a clear, visual marker that something had changed and that I was embracing it! I never embrace it. And I’d been cowering in the face of my twenties-death for so long that I knew I just needed to take a deep breath and lean into it.

Lean into it, I did. I also leaned into my terrible cold (going on nearly a month now, but at its torturous peak that weekend) and into my desperate desire to eat fried chicken and dance all of the aforementioned things into sweaty, saxophoned oblivion. I leaned into the small gathering planned for the next day to celebrate alongside my sister with the unfortunately-named “dead rockstar party” (apologies to Whitney 😦  R.I.P., we heard the news on a chip and pop run), and into the adventure I was gearing up for the following Monday.

In the bell jar. With bangs.

My first week as a thirty-year old was spent acting as guardian for a super fabulous six-year-old girl. Someone else’s life in someone else’s house was the exact thing I needed at this exact moment. I basked in the change of scenery, the change in environmental energy (oozing calmness with no constant din of television nor buzzing of electronics nor vibrating of clutter) and change in routine– namely, the very existence of a routine, which I have been somewhat lacking for more than a few months. And most of all, hanging with an awesome kid, doing awesome kid things.

I walked her to school four days in a row, and realized that the only thing that makes Valentine’s day not an unnecessary, invented holiday is throngs of young children dressed in red and bearing homemade gifts for their classmates. Seriously, my heart toppled out of my chest and I don’t think I ever got all the pieces back. I took her to swimming lessons and talked with one of the moms about my revelations (including not realizing that my presence beside the pool made much of a difference until I got a few excited arm waves from the shallow end), and post-lesson, followed her confident, city-kid navigation to eat at an establishment which I had previously only associated with late-night beer and chicken wings (they have a lot of other things, including a kids’ menu, FYI).

I was reminded of many things, including my much younger self. Did you know that six-year-olds are incredibly literal? They want to know why you said “two seconds” when you actually meant “five minutes”. They point out your quirks (“why do you always say ‘sorry’ when you didn’t do anything?”), and remember the words you use to explain, using them with a conspicuous frequency. In this case, “habit”. They also would really, really much rather have a pizza come to the door than pick it up on the way home- which, you know, I think I understand, cuz ordering pizza is pretty exciting. They say hilarious things very matter-of-factly, and can be startling in their innocence.

People were looking at me differently, usually with an extra dose of kindness. Parents(/caregivers) and I shared knowing looks when we crossed paths, and silent laughter at many of the aforementioned interactions. Particularly at overhearing me declare my new age (which still did not roll off the tongue, despite my years of preparation) in the middle of one of those impossible-to-describe conversations couched in 6 year old logic (something that ended up with us being different ages than we actually were).
“Don’t let anybody hear you say that!”
“What, that I’m thirty?”
“Yessss,” she hissed, with an exasperated eye-roll. Me and the lady walking by shared a good laugh, like a couple of proper grown-ups.

So, it was official. New hair, new voice (pretty raspy cool, thanks month-cold!), new decade. Newly assumed to be the mother of a six-year-old by many passers-by, which I am only now realizing isn’t just possible, but would make perfect, totally regular sense. Why did it freak me out so much? Maybe because I didn’t have my well-worn copy of Disintegration to listen to for the tenth time in the past month, or my cat and dog to crawl into my mother-effing bunk bed with (though the cat I had here was a pretty great substitute) and brood about it for the standard week  month. Maybe because everyone kept saying “how’s it feel? Exactly the same, huh?” with a knowing or nervous chuckle (depending upon their own age). When the person in question was one of the many fall and winter babies I am friends with, I felt bad at saying “NO! It doesn’t feel the same AT ALL. Does this mean I have to get rid of my bunk bed? Because that’s where I keep most of my clothes.” Because, all they want is to know it’s gonna be okay when they get there a few months from now. So I would just cautiously say…”not exactly”…and pray that I would start to feel like myself again very, very soon.

Getting back home eased me into that transition. Buying 2 pairs of skinny, metallic jeans for $7 each, exactly one week into my “new life” gave me the same joy it did when I was 29 (or 21, for that matter). And getting right pissed off about an article posted on Facebook (posted in frustration, and responded to in kind) that questioned my right to do so (actually mentioning “skinny jeans” and “thirty” in the title), gave me the exact same feeling of glee and badass unstoppability as it always did. FUCK THEM! I got to think. Maybe I liked having something new to rage against, some new thing to do my own way and nobody else’s.

You can pry my sparkly pants out of my old dead hands. I’m thirty now- and yes, two months along, I do feel almost exactly the same. I am- shock!- the same frigging person after all, but MAN, so much better without that invented planet hovering over me.

30 > 29…who woulda thought?

*I was into this life when I started writing this…then I forgot about it for awhile (cuz I had to)…

I was awoken by some Mohicans.

At 5 in the morning. There was some sort of battle happening, and it was happening in my face, since we’ve been sleeping on the main floor to ward off the heat of summer, and since…Netflix.

I don’t know who was fighting who or why, but in my hazy, wee-hour confusion, both the throbbing bag-piped score and the guttural screams of shirtless men were personified (note, not the men themselves, who are actual persons) and pummeling each other for supremacy. Their repeated collision felt like a nervous breakdown and kinda reminded me of this*, for some reason.

For what felt like at least three hours, I was spun in a nightmarish cycle of waking, jumping, and volume reducing.  It felt like the loudest, most obnoxious sequence I’d ever witnessed. I tossed and turned while my patience and well-being were pelted with tomahawks. “WHAT IS THAT MUSIC??!!”, I groggily bitched. “Turn it up, I can’t hear the talking,” Edgar said very matter-of-factly.

There was no talking. But there was running (and screaming, and music). I sought refuge in another room upstairs, with my roll-out mattress and a thin sheet over my ears, while the song bludgeoned my brain for at least another half-hour. Though even through my fury, I could appreciate the hilarity of the situation. Probably only cuz I didn’t have to work in the morning.

Badass. But also kinda hilar.

Of course, when I awoke, I couldn’t even hum the tune. How ironically disappointing. So I set out to find it, randomly scrolling (Netflix and all), to approximately 3/4 of the way through the film and coincidentally happening upon the most dead-on impression of Ben Stiller doing an impression of Daniel Day Lewis I could have ever hoped for.

I also found the song, which started (no joke) about 30 seconds later and goes by the name The Gael. Apparently, back in the day, it was kinda a big deal. And in cheerful (but not too cheerful) daylight, at a proper volume, with requisite emotional preparation (but still really, no context), I could appreciate its dramatic beauty and (presumed) appropriateness for the film’s bloody (presumed) climax. Still, that shit was BANANAS.

And still, after twenty years, I don’t actually know what this movie is about. Nor do I really feel the need to.

*link to come.