The first memory I ever had was watching my mother playing with my handicapped brother at a forest preserve in Illinois. I was four years old and at that very moment determined to believe that she loved him more than me. I specifically remember thinking "what does he have that I'm lacking? What's wrong with me?"
Today I was invited to a dinner party on Friday with a group of people who live in San Francisco, one of the top 5 most expensive places to live in the country, and have more money than I could ever imagine. My first thought was that I needed to buy a cocktail dress to wear, because everything I own suddenly seemed completely inadequate. From my favorite summer dress to the gorgeous turquoise shawl I bought in Thailand, in my mind, nothing was good enough for the table I would be sharing with women in Menolos and Chanel. I found myself wondering how the hell this happened when I've spent my adult life wearing my artistic edge with so much pride.
I just recently celebrated my 33rd birthday and as I've watched another year pass me by, I've realized that, more often than not, my thinking has been monopolized by the very same classification of questioning that saturated my perception at the ripe age of four. Hopping back and forth between being cloyingly ingratiating and stupidly combative, I've continuously accented my identity crisis and questions of self-worth with hopeful materialism. Whether it be an outfit, a hairstyle, a body weight or a piece of home decor, I've longed to ensure that I never lack anything. But I know today how fruitless it's all been. While my little world flourished with perfectly pretty little things, I failed to do anything to cultivate all that was inside of me. My sense of self and my confidence got pushed to the back burner while I plotted my every move for the sake of the favor of others. Yet still, after all that exhausting work, I was alone.
So here's to 33. Money, politics and technology both exhaust and disgust me. I have no tolerance for right wing, fundamentalist self-righteous Christians. Tuna melts and margaritas make me smile. I have a lousy memory when it comes to things that don't interest me, which means a lot of things don't interest me. My dogs take up 56% of my time and 89% of my thoughts. I hate big crowds. I love a clean home. Up until 3 months ago, I thought I was allergic to gluten, but it turns out I have an eating disorder. I believe vibrators can be very nice if you care enough to replace the batteries. Death and wrinkles still scare me. I hate pantyhose and I have yet to find a comfortable pair of underwear. Hunter makes me crazy but I know more than I ever have before that we have something extraordinary. Summer shadows and iced tea will always be the perfect combination. I don't care enough to paint my toenails or cut my hair but the perfect shade of lipstick means far more to me than I'm willing to let on. I no longer believe I'm the star of my own movie, but secretly, I wish I still did. I still struggle with wanting to fit in even though I hate the idea of conforming. A person's time means more to me than any gift ever will. And I hope that I will never stop writing, because it's the minutes in my day when I truly feel like me.
It's not much, but this is what I know and what I have to hold true to my heart. My world is small but it's mine. And as I watch the shadows from the maple trees stirring against the pavement on this hot July day from my little apartment with my three dogs sleeping on my lap I realize that the only thing I am lacking in my life is confidence and perhaps some gratitude. Everything else is just as it should be. So here's to 33, everything I do and don't know, all that I have, have always had and will one day finally do away with. Until then, I'll wear my favorite dress, my $5 flats and my turquoise shawl with pride on Friday night; with Hunter at my side and we'll both, most likely, be covered in dog hair. This is who I am and I would not have it any other way.
