42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

I thought I might be more depressed or more excited or something about turning 30.
But it turns out, as predicted, that today is like any other day. Except with good wishes and presents.
I don’t feel any different, though if I let myself reflect just a little, I mourn the loss of my twenties.
The supposed good years. The best years of your life, if you don’t believe that crap about high school.

The world still stretches out mostly new, exciting, out to the horizon. You’re still cool. Still young to have your finger on the pulse of new things. Or that’s the theory anyway. There’s at least that possibility that one day, you could still be cool and maybe even rule the world.

I’ve never had 5 or 10 year plans for what I’m going to do with my life. I can’t see that far in the future. I probably can’t see a year into the future.
But I did have a couple of nebulous goals that I missed.

I wanted to buy a house by the time I was 30. Three or four years ago, this was easily achievable. I was ready to settle down in my home region of Michiana, where I had a stable job and was near my family. I could have afforded a house with a little penny pinching, but since I’ve never been extravangant in my spending, I probably could’ve pulled it off. But since I moved to California, I’ve realized I can’t afford a house here. Not unless the inflated housing market takes a big nose dive. As much as I’d like to see that happen for my personal gain, I know that it’ll also hurt a lot of people, from homeowners to construction workers to people who work in banks. It’ll also hurt the industry I work in, since we depend so heavily on advertising and a good economy.

I also wanted to write a novel. I wanted to be that young author that everyone was so surprised by. Oh, that Mel B. is an astonishing writer, especially for someone so young.
Problem is, I spent most of the last decade either working very hard or going to school or both. I found that journalism sucked most of my creativity away, and also left me for little inclination to do any writing for myself.
I found a lot of excuses to avoid writing. I was too tired. I was in school. That journalism excuse again. Each excuse would be eliminated, and I would find ways to fill up my time. I was tired of working and studying so hard. Now was the time to rest.

I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was 13, since my parents sent me to an academic camp at a college for a week or two. I remember I didn’t do so well there, but at least I found a love of writing. I knew then I was going to write a book. I wrote a novel and a half between then and 17 or 18. I still have the embarassing files; the handwritten version was long since pitched. I keep hoping one day I’ll go back to them to salvage what I can, but part of me knows it’s not worth it. Time to start fresh.

It is time to start fresh. It’s a new decade, and I’ve run out of excuses. Nothing is holding me back but me.
I’m going to try harder to write.
I don’t know how I’m going to motivate myself for that. I’ve made a new goal for writing.
Starting tomorrow. Because I’m enjoying doing as close to nothing as I possibly can today.

There are other things people do when they’re in their twenties. They discover what they want to be doing, who they want to be.
I’m fairly certain I know who I am, and that I am close to who I want to be. I think I’m funny, sarcastic, intelligent. I need to be more social and not threatened so much by group situations. Maybe I need to work on my self-esteem and my weight. Maybe I need to not be so negative about certain things in my life.

People also get married and have children. Or just have children. Apart from not having many opportunties at either, I’ve concluded that part of the American dream just isn’t for me.
I don’t believe in absolutes, so I won’t say never, but I’m guessing even one child isn’t in my future. I kinda like only having to worry about me. Even though I find baby clothes cute.
Perhaps I’ll have the opportunity to make a difference in the lives of other people’s children.

My body, as I reflected last year, is starting that downward decline. It probably started in my early twenties, actually, with the back pain. It doesn’t help that I have other problems which help pack on the pounds. And my hands, my face… They start to betray me.
I don’t know what happens. It just happens so gradually. One day we’re babies, then kids thinking how long the school year is. I remember thinking that 21 was so old. I was sure I would die before then; that it’d be the end of the world.
We’re teenagers. We’re cocky. We know everything, and the world is full of possibilities.
Most of us begin accepting responsibility in our twenties. Some of us know what we want to be when we grow up. Some people get married and find purpose in children or in jobs.

I’m still looking. I’d still like to think I’ve got some novels in me. I don’t know that I will actually get there, or that I’ll be able to make a living from my writing. I’m guessing not.
So I have to anchor myself in the real world but keep my dream in sight. I can’t waste another decade.

Time passes so quickly as we ages. It contracts. Days, weeks somehow grow shorter. Years pass as we just trudge from day to day, trying to make it to the weekend, to a time we don’t have to think or worry.
There’s only one chance to get it right. And I’ve already wasted 30 years.

And, as press releases end…

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