Wake up, Ethel July 6, 2008
And then one day you turn 25. Nothing noticable happens in the seconds between twelve and twelve-oh-one. It’s just a new age bracket when you fill out forms, no longer “18-24”, it’s now “25-30”. And unlike 18 when lotto tickets and cigarettes became possible, or 21 which harkened the age of alcohol, with 25 you get the flaccid, if not dissapointing “lower insurance rates” (which everyone keeps referring to with great enthusiasm, like parents talking up a door prize to a heartbroken kid that played “no-blindfold-pin-the-tail” and missed the stupid donkey’s ass EVERY time…. Thanks for playing, have an eraser.) and the ever popular “ability to rent a car”.
I think to myself – good grief, ethel, if you’re this worked up over 25, what ever will you do with 30? And then, not content to obsess over non-existent wrinkles in my pool of self reflection, I simply dive right in to the good stuff, specifically the question
Why have you been up at night like a 53 year old man whose just bought a corvette and some Rogain because he’s SURE he’s caught wifey and garden boy exchanging meaningful silence everytime she hands the kid a check for mowing the front lawn. It’s rediculous, it really is.
Isn’t it? Maybe on some accounts it is, but in some respects, maybe it’s the pin in the ass, coutesy of time, the kid who never misses, blindfold on, one hand tied behind his back. Wake up, Ethel, wake up and move.
Bottom line, it’s like when I lost the weight. One day, lying in bed dreaming of a perfect life, I realized in those dreams, I wasn’t the invisible fat girl who was afraid to dance in pantyhose, lest the friction of her thighs ignite said hose. And that meant doing something to make life and dreams merge. Now its the same. A happy life doesn’t look like where I am. Yeah, I did pretty good for a while, and I let myself “surf” on my accumulated accomplishments. Yep. I surfed right up onto the beach and now I’m standing proudly on my surfboard, on the sand next to some guy in a banana hammock, wondering why he’s looking at me like I’M the rediculous one. Its because I am. I’m 25 years old, and when A confronts me with “Fig, what are you DOING with your life that matters to what your goals are” I hold up my hand, and with self-righteous indignance I proclaim “Hush, I’m dreaming. Besides, I’m just a kid, I’ve got a lot to learn before I’m ready to do anything great”
Okay honey now, please. Shut up. There’s kids officially a quarter of your age, maybe even…HALF…doing more than you are and you just KNOW how that eats your cake.
What do you want, Ethel? What does it look like when you close your eyes? Whats it going to take to get there? Quick now, answer quickly, because you’ve got to get out there.
Is it sad that I want the same things I’ve wanted for years and that now I’m discouraged about ever being a person who has them? Maybe, but as long as I still want them…
(Because I do know that I won’t be young forever and that if I don’t do something NOW to distinguish myself, to give myself the opportunity to CONTINUALLY change who I am, what I’m doing, how I feel, how I look, where I’m going, what I’m learning…if I don’t make a point of being great, with each year that passes I’m going to lose more respect, for myself, my abilities to do what I want, I’ll accrue more regrets and I can’t afford that. Not with just one life to live.)
I want to be completely fit. The last of the weight and totally toned. B-b-b-b-aaad to the bone hot, is really what it boils down to.
I want to learn a language.
I want my degree
I want to build homes, hope and awareness for the orphaned children around the world.
I want to be a great chef
I want to be well traveled
I want to adopt
I want to make other people’s dreams come true
I want to be on time and organized
I want to be well read
….I don’t think that’s too much to ask…
Going now, to be 25. Going to be great.
(Going to see the professor)