Eat the Damn Cake

I am almost twenty-six. One week left. It’s coming up fast, like a velociraptor. I am running, but you know it’s gonna get me, and those things are wily. They’ve practically got hands. With giant claws.

(see?? source)

Twenty-six. That’s on the other side of the twenties. More towards the thirties, where all sorts of secrets about life lie. Where I think they’ve put adulthood, at least temporarily.

Anyway, I found a WHITE HAIR. Yesterday. Which is not such a big deal. People have been known to find those before the age of twenty-six. But it just seems symbolic, or something—the timing. The timing feels a little harsh. Like, yeah, this time next year, they’ll all be white, honey. Just so you know.

That’s OK. White hair is nice. I knew a girl with white hair in college. It was gorgeous until she dyed it.

But twenty-six? How much am I supposed have accomplished by now? I think probably more than I have. Maybe a Pulitzer? A Nobel? An Oscar? Some other kind of giant prize? Something gold and shiny, triumphant and permanent that I can stick on a pedestal in the middle of the room and everyone can think, “Well, she’s amazing forever.” And then they will stop asking me questions like, “So…you write? That’s fun. Anything else? Still looking for a job?” If not a prize, at least a six-figure book deal. I would accept that. “Young Author Catches Literary World By Surprise With Sheer Brilliance! Is Declared Greatest Writer Ever.”

I’m not going to get started.

I’m not going to retell the story of the college girls my friend overheard on the elevator who were like, “What is she, like, twenty-six?!” “No way! I thought she was young!” “No, dude, she’s like twenty-six.” “Shit…well, she looks pretty young for her age. She’s still cool.”

 

My friends and I were having a conversation the other day, over coffee, about whether or not we should lie about our age. Whether or not we’re at that point. That was a real conversation. Our ages: 25-27.

I was on the side of honesty, justice, and all that is right in the world: “No way! We should NEVER lie about our age! If we feel like we have to lie now, imagine how forty will feel.”

*A long, uncomfortable silence in which no one can imagine what forty might feel like*

(Bear always says he expects to feel the same at every age, because he’ll always be himself, and always be a little uncertain about how he’s supposed to be acting.)

(I always expect my future self to be cooler, more put together, and better at picking shoes than my current self, which so far hasn’t proven totally true.)

I am going to blame this, at least partially, on New York City. The land of achievers. Last night I was reading about this gorgeous East Village apartment that some twenty-seven year old online poker player is selling for $4 million. If you are an online poker playing prodigy who has made millions of dollars somehow, then you are definitely going to be in New York. Somewhere near me. The girl who is turning twenty-six without ever winning a single online poker game.

I’m  a cliche—I get all angsty and existential around my birthday. I wonder if I’m wasting my talents. I can paint, you know! What about that? I can sing! Am I singing enough? Maybe I should start doing open mics! What does one do with these things? What does it look like to not waste your talents? All I do is write, I think.

So a couple days ago, I went to a Big Brothers Big Sisters orientation, and I filled out all the forms.

It’s not that I’m afraid to be twenty-six. I’m afraid to grow up without accomplishing things. I come from a family of musical prodigies, but I failed as a piano prodigy. By the time I was fourteen, the twelve-year-olds on the circuit had surpassed me. I could never, no matter how hard I tried, hit every note with mechanical precision. I could play musically. I could phrase beautifully. I could make the piano cry and make it rage. But my fingers trembled before competitions. I was nervous. I got bored, practicing for so many hours. I wanted to play the gorgeous parts. I did not want to practice my scales and arpeggios. One day, I saw a five-year-old play a Chopin scherzo. I wondered if maybe the world was a terrible place.

Now I play keyboard sometimes, because I love it. But it took a lot of years to separate the love from the desperate striving.

Sometimes I’m afraid that writing will become another piano competition for me. That someone younger and with better technique and quicker fingers will win first place, and I will be left in the dark of audience seating, watching.

But life is not a piano competition. It’s sweeter and kinder and more complex than that. 

I read a book about writing. The author, a writer and former marine, tells his readers to stop being such goddamn wimps. Stop making excuses. Your wife is eight months pregnant and you’re trying to finish up grad school. You should really be at home, taking care of her and studying. WRONG! THAT’S AN EXCUSE! Write your novel!! Look at Tolstoy! He had THIRTEEN KIDS! Did that stop him from writing friggin’ WAR AND PEACE? No. It did not.

I am remembering something about Tolstoy’s home life…It was…unhappy? Didn’t he eventually lose his mind?

Regardless. I don’t like it. That advice—drop everything and write your novel—sounds wrong. If you think that your novel is the most important thing in the world, than you might want to reevaluate. Maybe there’s someone who needs you who you’re ignoring so that you can write.

Reading this book about writing, and thinking about myself and my desire to win stuff, I made a decision. No pregnant wife of mine would ever get left alone when she needed me.

Or, um, rather: there is always something more important than your career. And that something is always other people.

My immediate solution: foster a child.

Bear: Wait, WHAT? Hold on. You want to foster a CHILD? Like, an entire kid? Here? In our apartment?

Me: Yes.

Bear: No. You can’t just go out and foster a child.

Me: Well, first you go to some orientations and get training…

Bear: Can we talk about this in, like, a few years?

Me: You’re standing in the way of my dreams.

Bear: You just thought of it like ten minutes ago.

Me: It’s not going to go away, you’ll see.

Bear: What is happening?

My compromised solution: Big Brothers Big Sisters.

My interview is on Thursday. I can’t wait. Sitting in the back at the orientation, I was practically bouncing in my seat, laughing at all of the coordinator’s jokes. They were hilarious. I don’t know why everyone else in the room was so blank-faced.

I was suddenly so excited. I can’t wait to meet this girl. I can’t wait to learn about her life—what she cares about, what she wants to achieve, what she’s achieving right now.

When I meet her, I’ll be twenty-six. I will have already had a white hair. I will have written hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of pages. I will have never won at online poker. I will not have a single impressive trophy on the pedestal that sits empty in the center of the room. I will be the kind of person who cares about other people and makes a difference in their lives. And that’s the kind of person I want to be.

And also a writer, at the same time. It does happen occasionally.

(it wants a hug! I think we’re gonna be friends…source)

*  *  *

How was twenty-six for those of you who lived it, or are living it now?

Unroast: Today I love the way I look in a silver sweater.

P.S. Best title ever, right? I thought so.