Feeling: LIKE CAPTAIN PLAN-IT
On Tuesday night I went to a bar to catch up with two pals. Whilst waiting for them to show (ever early), I bumped into a girl/woman (at what point does a female switch over to the “older” term?) whom I don’t know by name but acknowledge with a “Howdy” or smile whenever I see her around town. Let’s christen her Darla. (Don’t ask me why, it just fits the dollybird). (What the fuck is a dollybird?).
Darla enquired about my trip away and asked how it felt to be home. I confided in her the constant self nagging that I need to start sorting my life out, figure out what I’m doing and do it. She laughed.
“I went through that about two years ago,” she reminisced. “I hit that age where you need to decide your career, future plans, money goals, etc.” (Well she didn’t say “etc” out loud but it went along those lines).
Nowadays Darla chauffeurs herself round in a v. v. nice vehicle. She dresses in the more high end designer doll ups, is always out for dins and drinks, and is very well put together in self portrayal both in persona and appearance. I actually have a bit of a girl crush on her.
So to hear that Darla but a mere 728 days ago (729 if a leap year of course) had been roaming round in the same sitch I am currently experiencing was a marshmallow sponge of comfort. Although she was extremely fresh faced and youthful looking, I placed her at about 30 odd; I knew her partner to be about 37, she just seemed to exude that little bit more maturity than that of I and peers of my age and for some reason, her choice of wording just seemed to put her in the early-thirty bracket in my mind.
Fantastic, I thought. Givvuus another couple of years to reach that pinnacle point. Ideal!
We continued to yarn about when you know it’s time to sort yourself out. The age comes, she enthused. Her parents told her, her friends did, she knew herself. The same age for everyone, minus six months or so, she asserted. What age was that exactly? I asked.
“How old are you?” She asked.
“24,” I replied. “And you?”
She got an idiosyncratic facial on.
“Me too,” she hesitantly disclosed.
“Oh,” I responded. “Right-o.”
Cue awkward, cloddish moment of hush where we both were at a loss for words.
“Well,” I sort of stammered. “Have a lovely afternoon.”
(I must point out here that it was about 6.30pm).
We both turned to our own parties (the femmes had turned up at the most fantastic moment for escape), her the adult and I the adolescent, both aged 24.
At what point does it become necessary to become an adult? Cripes, what does “adult” even mean? Or “growing up”? As I have touched on in previous posts, sometimes I feel about 14; other days about 93 (clicking hips and all).
And who decides at what age you should know where you’re going? What your two-year, five-year, hell, decade plan is? When do you stop borrowing your mum’s card to pay for your appointment when you go to the doctors? (Would love to point out here that I only do so on loan with the promise of transferring the funds back in repayment. This self-paying started oh, about six months ago). (Take note, Uncle Jamie).
When do you have to learn about paying bills, how a mortgage works, what rates are, about sensible budgeting, the likes? Up until now, the extent of my adulting has included sussing my own car insurance and setting up an auto payment for rent whilst flatting.
I have supreme confidence in myself, yet overwhelming self doubt. I should be termed Pop the Paradox, as I contradict my own suberb but stupid self in a myriad of ways. E.g, the above am-I-a-child-or-adult conundrum.
Today I was asked what I want to do. What would really, truly, completely and utterly put me in my happy place? (Next post shall elaborate on just why this question was poised). And you know what? I could actually answer with no prolonged pondering.
Write. I want to write. I’d lovelovelove to get this blog up and running properly. While I endeavour to include the odd observance, travel tale, humorous happening or person profile (always with permission requested first, of course), I feel after certain occurrences today the main focus from here on out shall be on Ed.
That’s not to say it shall be all tears, turbulence and tiresome titterings. No no, I can assure. In fact, I can promise. Pinky swear areas associated with Ed do include some giggles, a shit ton of puns (weighty issue anyone? Heavy on my mind? Fat or slim chance of recovery? That’s just a taste) and the regular ability to make fun of myself. When shackled to a bastard such as Ed, sometimes the moments of pointing the stick at yourself bring bouts of sunshine.
So yes. I want to write. I was also asked today just why I’m continuing to share all this heartache and heartbreak and downright personal, personal shit and once again I could answer immediately; because it helps people. How do I know? Because I’ve been told.
Since my first admission two-point-five months ago (the date is etched in my mind forever. It is – and I’m sure will always remain – one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made; to own it, or to continue to live in a “vegan” excused lie?) I have had an unbelievable avalanche of responses making their way to my inbox. People who have them themselves been suffering from similar thought processes and hinderments that have found solace in my honesty. Family and friends of my own or others who say they have been opened a door, even if only to a slightly ajar crick, to understanding. And those with no experience themselves or through a close counterpart, who just find my posts bring them to dolour.
Do you know how euphoric it makes me to realise I have that power? To render someone to feel pain, joy, be moved, be tickled, to laugh out loud, to cry, to pass the link onto friends, all with the act of jiggling 26 letters around into different formations? It’s astounding. And it makes me feel fucking fantastic.
Not to salute my own saxophone or anything, but although I knew I had a slight skill in the old writing field (winning High Distinction in the Australasian Fiction Short Story Comp back in ’03 planted a weeny wad of faith in my storytelling) I never realised the magnitude of adroitness in my way with words. But being told quite often how I am really rather talented (Tall Poppy Syndrome; I find this admittance excruciating) has me buzzing and full of self love.
So yes, writing my blog to somehow bring in revenue. Needs research.
And this extends to writing a book. (Or multiple).
My laptop holds dozens of documents of “manuscripts” started but never followed through. They range from twenty pages to twenty chapters, mainly following the thread of Ed. Teen fiction, adult novel, honest account. The dream is there. It just needs drilling and nutting out to be a steady train rather than a junction of many tracks.
And Yoga. Oh brandy snaps, I positively yearn to return to either India, Bali or Thailand and complete my teacher training. I am qualified to teach beginners and intermediate level with my 200 hour course, but to crack into the advanced bracket one must do a further 300. I want to immerse myself in a full 500, or 63 days of yoga studying bliss. If I had the funds, I’d fly off tomorrow. (Unfortunately I feel the $403 currently residing in my account wouldn’t get me far past Aussie). So I’m locking that in as a DO DO DO before 2016 is up.
And I must also give attention to all this marriage business. Writing and conducting my friends’ wedding earlier this year was one of the most enjoyable things I have ever ever done. It actually elated me. I want to marry more. With a few recent proposals putting a handful of ceremonies to conduct in the pipeline, I want to put Pop out as a potential unioniser (glorious word) for partners.
So as the piccy at the top declares I may not know my own plot, but I have a sketchy skeleton of what I want it to entail. And my cast is absolutely fab. I think the people in my life now are my most favourite I’ve ever had, with my relationships with them stronger, more open and more loving than ever before.
And fuck it. If I don’t know my plot, I can always jam one out for this book I’m fizzing to make happen, right?
Cheers Darla. While I may not fit in with your “adult time” age range, it spurred me to perhaps at least lend an hour to play pretend.