25 Thoughts Upon Turning 25

My birthday was several days ago, and I have yet to receive all the answers to life’s greatest questions from the universe. Maybe they got lost in the mail.

Nah, I never expected to know everything by the age of 25. Or possibly ever. Instead, my head is filled with questions, worries, and thoughts that sometimes make me feel more naive than I did when I was 12. It’s not all bad thoughts. Some are just small ponderings. But here are 25 of them, that are unique to me and may or may not resonate with you, but why not just do me the birthday curtesy of giving them a read.

1. “I wonder if all the years of bad flossing when I was younger is going to limit my life span.” Hm. I guess we’ll see. Trying to do better now though.

2. “I scare super easily for someone with three college degrees.” Maybe I should work on that one. But hey, if zombies ever become a reality, I know I will have the motivation to run very fast.

3. “What the hell am I doing?” This applies to many aspects of my life. I think the answer is and will likely remain: “Who the hell knows?”

4. “How do I know that I’m making the right choices?” Well, you don’t, really. Unless you’re committing tax fraud. But generally, I suppose you’ll never know until 20 years after you’ve made that choice. And at that point, it’s too late to go back, so you might as well keep going. Or have a midlife crisis and buy a Ferrari.

5. “I want to see so much more of the world.” This I think will be a constant thought. I’m writing this post from Spain, and this trip is only making me more eager to see new places.

6. “I feel like a failure because I don’t have a plan.” I don’t know what my next year looks like. Or my next 5 years. I have goals, but I have so many, and they all lead me to different places, and I don’t know which to pick first or which to focus on the most.

7. “Is there something wrong with me?” I know there isn’t. I know I’m beautiful and smart and have lots to offer, but even so, I am the one common factor with all my failed relationships. Not that I think that pretending to be someone I’m not to gain affection would make me happy. But patience wears thin. Patience with others and with myself. And sometimes I just really wish I had someone to shower with affection without feeling like I’m a burden to them.

8. “Could I cope with being single forever?” Because that’s starting to look like a real possibility. I realize this is me being a negative Nancy. But then, maybe it’s not so bad. I still have some feisty cougar years to look foreword to, and then there’ll be no one to stop be from living in a bright pink house next to a doughnut shop with a brood of corgis when I’m 80.

9. “Would I be happier if I closed myself off more?” I get hurt a lot, because I keep my heart really open. I let people in, and I care about people very deeply. So when they turn on me, ignore me, reject me, or make me feel small, I feel it with a greater weight. And maybe if I stayed more closed, if I didn’t let as many people in, that wouldn’t happen as much. I don’t know if I would be happier. But I know my heart would hurt a lot less.

10. “I still don’t know if I want kids or not.” Eh, who knows. I’ll figure it out eventually.

11. “I owe so much happiness to my friends and family.” This is just a fact, I’m surrounded by the most incredible bunch of humans. They have built me and supported me, and I owe them more than I could possibly say.

12. “The mountains were a wonderful place to grow up.” I’m so grateful to have had an outdoorsy, active childhood. And I appreciate a good view so much more because of it.

13. “When I was younger, I didn’t think that my family dynamics would change over time.” It’s easy to stay stuck in a little bubble of childhood happiness. But over the years I’ve seen us grow together and apart in ways I never would have considered possible. But we still hang in there. Because families do.

14. “I wonder if I’ll ever open a bakery…” That was a career option for me, back when I was in high school. Come back to me when I’m 50, maybe I’ll have made it happen.

15. “Going to school abroad was the best decision I’ve ever made.” Seriously. Nothing has contributed more to my growth, my wisdom, my street smarts, or my confidence.

16. “Lol ok what now?” Seriously. I miss school for the reason that we got told what to do, and how to succeed. Now I have no one pointing me in the direction of certain success, and I’m so scared to make the wrong choices.

17. “Where should I go now?” This is mostly a physical reference. Visas are fun things which make it hard for me to make a career in England, and I’m not really sure if where in the US I should head, or if I should even commit to one place just yet. Maybe I’ll just move to Nebraska. Yeah, that’s it.

18. “Is it always going to be like this?” (Negative) I’m sure I will find more direction soon, or at least find the motivation to create that direction confidently for myself. But it’s so easy to fear the potential of stagnant mediocrity, and the possibility of remaining a poor, floundering, artistic failure forever.

19. “Is it always going to be like this?” (Positive) Will my friends and I stay close? Will I be able to keep traveling? Will I still be able to drink 4 tequila shots in one night, stay up until 3am, and wake up without a hangover when I’m 40? Who’s to say, but I sure hope so.

20. “There is a strong possibility that I own too many turtlenecks for my age.” Really, I own upwards of 15. I feel having like any more than 10 should be reserved for moms who drink Chardonnay with their friends at lunch. But hey, they look great with my short hair.

21. “I’m happiest when I’m dancing.” I’ve always felt this way, and I hope dancing remains the thing that always makes me smile, even in years to come. I have a feeling it could come in handy during my cougar years…

22. “My legs are my favorite body part.” Always have been. Hopefully always will be.

23. “I’m doing great.” Considering everything, my life is pretty damn spectacular.

24. “I wonder if I’ll still have this blog in a few years time.” I’d like to, I really would. Unless someone decides to pay me for my writing, then so long WordPress!

25. “I’m a fucking stellar human being.” I’m so proud of what I’ve accomplished, and I know I’m going to do amazing things in the future. And I’ll stay so humble throughout all of it, I’m sure. Kidding, I’ll remain a cocky asshole, but only where I’ve earned the right to be one.

Well that’s it. 25 little considerations from a freshly turned 25 year old. I definitely don’t have all the answers, but I do have a lot of questions. And a lot of hope. And a lot of excitement for the future.

And a lot of room in my stomach for birthday cake.

50 First Swipes

I met him outside the CU campus science museum. It was 7:45 in the morning. I don’t know why I agreed to this. I had rehearsal every night that week, so this was the only bit of spare time I had to go on a date: Friday before my 9:30 class. He suggested it, and I somehow decided that a stranger I had been talking to for 3 days on Coffee Meets Bagel was worth sacrificing an extra hour of sleep to meet.

He was quite nice. We grabbed a coffee, then went for a really long walk around campus. We ended up holding hands by the end. We agreed to meet up the following week, in the short break I had between my last Tuesday class and rehearsal. We got a drink from a nearby bar. He said he was reading Modern Romance by Aziz Ansari, a book my mom had just recommended to me days before (spooky). We kissed on the steps of the theatre building, and I had to run inside so I wouldn’t be late to my fight call.

It didn’t work out. For many reasons. He fell really hard. He sent me a massive text far more intimate than any I’d ever received. He said “I can’t wait for you to open yourself up to me.” He said that I was a goddess, and he’d put me on a pedestal in his mind. I told him I was extremely uncomfortable and I didn’t want to talk to him again. Might be a bit harsh. We did get along, we had some good conversations, but a few things didn’t feel quite right, and that message was where I drew the line. I didn’t want to be on a pedestal. I didn’t want to feel pressure to open myself up to someone. I just wanted it to happen, naturally.

I’ve been single for 6 and a half years now, and I drop in and out of dating apps. I’m not always in a state of seeking out a potential mate (#animalplanet), as I’m often too busy to think too much about it. Still, I know the symptoms of loneliness extremely well. I’m fortunate to have many wonderful friends who I can go out with, confide in, or rely on for distraction, making it easy to not feel as though something is missing. But the loneliness still comes, usually in waves. Most often it’s fleeting and goes away after a fun night of dancing or with the purchase of a new Fenti highlighter. But when it lingers… There’s an app for that.

Dating apps aren’t all winners. Nah, I take that back. All dating apps have the potential to be winners, but it is heavily dependent on wether or not you are meeting the 6% of people on this app who are 1) Not catfish, 2) Interested in dating and not just a picture of your boobs, 3) Not in a relationship already, 4) Actually going to message you back, 5) Willing to go on a date with you, 6) Easygoing and friendly on said date and 6) Not going on this date simply to lure you into their home, skin you alive, and hang you above their fireplace. It’s a risk. Even if everything in the situation is completely safe and good, there still is the risk that you won’t jive with this person. Then you’ve gone and wasted a perfectly good evening and 20 quid on cocktails that didn’t even get you laid. What if the next time isn’t successful either? Or the time after that? It’s easy to get disheartened and call it quits, when you’re going through all the stress and strain of dating with none of the rewards. The messaging alone can be enough to throw in the towel. The most frequent message is “Hey”, followed by “what’s up?”, neither of which usually lead to a deep or compelling conversation. Sometimes it progresses from that, but doesn’t always end in someone asking the other person out. Often, it’s just another rabbit hole of misogyny you didn’t know you were falling down until it’s too late. See below.

I had an odd encounter a few weeks back. I was chatting with this guy; let’s just call him James. James messages me something about one of my photos, which was taken in Oxford, saying “You’re at my school!” I made some clever reply about him needing to avoid all the basics taking instagram photos on his campus. He responded, and we had a little chat going. He was nice, asked a lot of questions, made some jokes. Important detail: he was really hot. Like, hot to the point where I get skeptical. Muscular, white teeth, well built, cast-able as a frat guy in a film. Usually these are the sorts of guys who’ll message “you up?” in the wee hours of the morning, so I was a bit taken aback by this extended conversation we had going. Now this isn’t a self criticism, but in my experience, guys who fit the social media standard of “ideal male attractiveness” go for women who could be classified under “ideal female attractiveness”. Basically- not me. This isn’t a self criticism, just an acknowledgment that I have short hair, no thigh gap, and dress like a mom 80% of the time (but, like, a cool mom). Now, this is a deeper conversation, because beauty is a construct and every type of body and style is beautiful, and I know that I’m hot as fuck HOWEVER based on my experience, men who present themselves in a certain way, who try to fit this standard of attractiveness, are not interested in anything more than sex, particularly from me. And that’s fine, live your best life. So when our dear friend James messaged me asking if I had any free time this week, I was surprised. Also flattered, excited, and hopeful. I told him when I was free… then didn’t hear back for 2 days.

When he finally responded, he said “I was going to see if you wanted a drink, but my schedule got busy the rest of this week, and I’m actually not going to have much free time for the rest of the month, but I’m open to other things though.” ….. Hm. I responded with: “Other things? That could cover a whole number of areas” to which he replied, “Just less time consuming stuff is what I meant.” ALRIGHT LOOK HERE CHAMP (actually here’s a list of things because I need to break this shit down): 1) I don’t know about you, but I can down a pint in like 15 minutes. Getting a drink doesn’t take that long. 2) If you’re referring to something sexual as what you might have time for… I’m not interested if it’s only going to take as long as it takes to get a drink. You’re implying that sex/something intimate will take less time than consuming a beverage, and somehow that’s meant to entice me? In whatever idea of sex you have in your head, you seem to have no interest in taking time to please me, clearly don’t have time to get to know me, and yet still don’t have the balls to tell me that directly. Hmm. 3) If I were to be down to have hookup with you, I still would want to meet you in a public place or something first, so a drink would probably still happen. Most girls won’t just come over to your place having never met you. Safety > that D. 4) I have no issue with you not wanting anything serious. That’s fine. Just be straight with me, dude. Tell me what you want. Don’t vaguely skirt around the situation, or else I might do something crazy like assume that you can only last 2 minutes, then post that assumption on the internet… oops. Anywho, I responded, “Less time consuming… soo shots instead of drinks?” and he deleted me. Nice work James, you’re a true ladykiller.

Once you actually get to a date, the hard work is pretty much over. You don’t have to play mind games and overthink messages, you just have to get to know someone, and hope you have a moderately ok evening. They may not all be great nights out. You probably won’t hit the bullseye on your first attempt. Do the rewards come? Maybe. I’m not totally sure, as I’m still single over here. But I’ve had some wonderful dates. I’ve met some great people. Some of them I kept seeing for a while. Others it was just one time. But there are some gems out there. It just takes one person, someone funny and sweet, maybe a little nervous and awkward, to remind you that there are people out there who are just looking for someone to spend time with. Someone that makes them smile. Someone who holds a mirror up to your own situation, and makes you feel a bit less alone. And you owe it to each other to try. To spend an hour in the company of a stranger, without judging them or yourself, and see if you feel a spark. If not, call it a night, split the bill, and get yourself a McDonalds on the way home.

If I can close on anything, if you’re living the single millennial nightmare, you’re not alone. It’s tough and dating apps don’t always offer the immediate relief which you deserve. But be patient. There are people out there who are just looking to make a connection. Give a few people a chance. If it doesn’t work, give yourself a break. Don’t let Auntie Beth’s constant questioning about your dating life pressure you into making hasty decisions or judging yourself. You’re allowed to be single. You’re allowed to take your time. There’s nothing wrong with you for not having settled into a stable relationship yet, even if all your friends are married. So let yourself be selfish, and date people who make you feel good. Make time for the one’s who give you butterflies, who pop into your mind when listening to certain songs, and are just as interested in you as you are in them. And if all that fails, remember that a doughnut, a cup of tea, and your favorite book will never swipe left on you.

Terrace Twats

I moved into 102 University Terrace at the beginning of my junior year of college. It was on the ground floor of a two story complex, and the front door opened up to a lawn which sloped down to the road. The house had a large living room, with a kitchen tucked in the corner. Down the hall was my bathroom and bedroom, then around the corner to the left was Keana’s room.

I met Keana through theatre. We had worked on a show together during our freshman year. In our sophomore year, we both were accepted into the BFA performance program, and had most of our classes together. With 12 other students, we crawled on the floor like amphibians, frantically memorized soliloquies, and shared our life stories. Our closest friends were also in theatre; they were the people we spent hours in rehearsals and classes with each day. We all know what each other was going through, and we all had fun, no matter the amount of stress we were under.

Keana and my house quickly became the theatre “party house”. This is probably because of my aggressive hosting tendencies. If you walk into my house, you will have a mimosa and a fresh baked cookie in your hand before the door is closed. That’s not an exaggeration. I love company, I love baking and cooking, and I love drinking with friends. Keana does as well, thus we often found our living room filled with friends until late in the night, eating some shortbread I just whipped up, washing it down with some champagne, and laughing about who fell asleep during Alexander technique in movement class that day.

The first big party we hosted was a Halloween party, and also our cast party for a show called Legacy of Light. The show was… well, it was work, let’s just say that. So this party could not come soon enough. The costumes were an off mix. Some people went full glam, a la Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn. One friend was an amazingly accurate Jack Skellington. We had a clown, a puppy, and a few muscular boys who went as basic white girls. I was a slutty pirate.

Now I love a crazy party as much as the next college kid. But it’s never my intention to get totally trashed. Additionally, if I’m hosting a party, it’s definitely never my intention to get my guests totally trashed. Let’s have fun, sure, but I’m not trying to have to call paramedics on your ass. I usually provide the same thing for parties: a 40 rack of beer, a bottle of vodka, a bottle of tequila, several bottles of cheap champagne, and a crap ton of Jell-O shots. Why Jell-O shots, you ask? I will tell you, reader! In my freshman year, my friend Emma and I took it upon ourselves to try and make Jell-O shots. We made them in a mixing bowl on the floor of my dorm room, and filled my mini fridge to the brim with them. And for two weeks, we were having the littest frat party pregames in all of Cheyenne Arapaho hall. I made them for every party after that, that is, after I got a place with a bigger fridge.

Back to this Halloween party, one particular guest has requested I get a bottle of Everclear. He gave me money for it, so I didn’t mind picking it up. Odd request though. For those who don’t know, Everclear is grain alcohol. Super cheap, really strong. We get to party time, and I see this kid mixing himself up drinks with like 3 shots of this stuff in them. I guess I just assumed he had a steel liver, and didn’t think much of it. A bit later, I come into the kitchen to him and a few other guys doing shots. Of Everclear. Then more people are getting in on it. Pretty soon the Everclear is gone, and most people at this party are fucked. But hey, it was just one bottle, we’re all adults here, we can handle our liquor. Right?

Ha.

In the morning, I found Keana’s bathroom a complete mess. Someone’s yanked down the shower curtain, and thrown up everywhere but the toilet. There’s also vomit in the hallway, down the wall and onto the carpet. The following party, we started making rules. The first rule was (and always will be): NO EVERCLEAR SHOTS.

Theatre kids love a good comedy moment, so we put copious energy into our party invites on Facebook. As most of the parties were cast parties, we’d go crazy on the puns to tie the play into the realm of drinking. Trial of God became Trial of Your Liver, Twelfth Night turned into Twelfth Drink (of the Night) and Fefu and Her Friends upped its game to Let’s Get Fefu(cked) Up (they’re not all winners, sorry). It was usually the same group of people, plus a few more if people brought friends or if a new group of kids had been cast in something. For the most part, everyone was wonderful and fun. I never had a neighbor make a noise complaint, but sometimes the musical theatre kids would test their vocal chords to a Disney song at 1:30am, and I’d be sure we were done for.

At many of our little shindigs, I had an interesting drunk persona, who liked to come out around the time I’d finished a bottle of peach moscato by myself. It wasn’t so much a new person, just the 50’s housewife hostess inside me would come out in full force and I’d have an insatiable desire to bake something. Legitimately too, not like a half ass attempt. I’d be in the kitchen, as people slammed tequila shots and cracked beers around me, baking a cherry pie. Homemade crust and all. My friend Bernadette said she found me once, standing alone in the kitchen staring at the stove, flipping pancakes. “You ok?” She asked me. I just looked at her, smiling, and replied, “They’re almost done!” Then I’d walk around with a plate full of still warm treats and let the intoxicated humans in my living room snack themselves back to sobriety.

Among the cast parties we hosted, we would have a party for the annual Burlesque show every spring. It seemed only natural to make it an underwear party. Now, this probably sounds quite raunchy, and to some degree, it is. But everyone was respectful; it was all people who knew each other and were comfortable around each other. Mostly, it was just like any other party, except that instead of leaving just their coats in my bedroom, they left most of their clothes. Everyone usually wanted to dance at these parties, so I’d push the couches to the side walls, and clear the living room as much as possible. There was a large wooden coffee table which I would shove up against the TV stand, but it was still rather in the way of the dance space. This wasn’t an issue, we’d just use it as a stage. There’d be 10 of us, dancing our hearts out to Beyonce in our cutest bras, not fully appreciating the miracle that this table was still standing. My mom lent me that table, I should add, which feels appropriate as she’s the original table dancer… (I’ll save that story for another time.)

As fun as the crazy parties were, some of the best times were when it was just a few of us, enjoying the day and each other’s company. I remember one Easter, when me and Keana had no plans, but it was a sunny, beautiful day. We went to Whole Foods and splurged on every indulgent treat we could think of: macaroons, cupcakes, iced coffee with fancy nondairy milk, Brie, berries, and cookies. We spread out blankets on our lawn and lay in the sun, eating our snacks and talking about everything. Some of our girlfriends stopped by later in the day, and joined us on the grass. It was so uneventful, yet so lush.

It was those people, in that place, whether it was dancing on a table or just lounging around, talking about whatever. Even when it was just me and Keana, getting ready in the morning, in our separate bathrooms, but with our doors open so we could talk and laugh about rehearsal the night before or what we were doing in class that day. #102 was full of life and laughter. It was cozy and homey, and also spacious enough to support 65 theatre nerds singing “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from Mulan. It saw girls nights watching BBC period dramas, late nights stressing over unmemorized lines or unfinished essays, and more brunches than I could possibly count. It’s seen tears, and silence, but those aren’t the memories that stick. And I’m grateful for that. And I’m grateful for the people who filled those rooms with life, and made the happy, crazy, lovely memories possible.

#102 University Terrace, Boulder, CO. August 2014 – August 2016.

Huh. That ended like an In Memoriam, but for a house. The place is fine, still standing, we somehow didn’t burn it down. I have no idea who lives there now, but I hope they’re having as much fun as we did.

Most Unique

In my senior year of high school, we had to vote for yearbook awards. You know the ones: Most School Spirit, Class Clown, Best Eyes. I wasn’t super popular, so I wasn’t expecting to get showered with votes, but I knew I had a shot at Best Dressed.

I had been a fashion fiend since I could pick out my own clothes, putting together crazy outfits to wear even on the most mundane days. Holidays? You can bet your ass I was showing up to school in some themed getup, all pink for Valentine’s Day or head to toe candy cane stripes for the last day of school before Christmas break. I was the girl wearing heels to school for no specific occasion other than it was a Tuesday. And I lived in a ski town, so this would be a Tuesday with 3 fresh inches of snow.

At school, I was chatting with some of my friends about the awards, if they knew who they were voting for, etc. Someone asked me,

“Is there one that you want to win?” I shrugged and lightly suggested that the Best Dressed one might be nice. One of my friends made an awkward face.

“Sarah’s trying to win that one. She’s telling people to vote for her.”

Shit. I hadn’t anticipated someone making a campaign out of this thing. I asked Sarah about it later:

“So you’re going for Best Dressed for the yearbook thing?”

She looked at me with her puppy dog eyes, knowing full well my collection of kooky pattered tights was superior to hers.

“Yeah, I just really want it! But I was gonna vote for you for Most Unique, that’s so perfect for you!”

“……”

Aight. Unique is a tough word. Because, yes, it does mean you’re kooky and interesting, and not similar to everyone else. But this is also high school, an organization that is basically run on conformity. And unique can be a positive thing, but it can also mean you stick out like a sore thumb, are weird, and are essentially the one left over puzzle piece of the bunch.

I was a bit odd and unusual, to be fair. I had been raised vegetarian, atheist, and without cable television, a trifecta which got me into several heated debates with classmates, especially in my younger years. It was never me who started them either.

A kid came up to me in fourth grade, to confront me about my disgraceful way of living after finding out I was a vegetarian. He lumbered up on the playground, shaggy brown hair seated like a mop upon his head, eyes full of contempt and self righteousness. His mom was the kind of woman who would most likely sue me over slander if I were to include his name, so let’s just call him G-Man.

“If you don’t eat meat, you won’t go to heaven.”

First of all, I was pretty sure that this prepubescent lump didn’t hold heaven’s gate keys, so this statement was a bit confusing.

“Huh?”

“You can’t be a vegetarian, because God gave you teeth to eat meat with, so if you don’t eat meat, you’re going to hell.”

“I don’t believe in heaven or hell.”

“…. what?”

“I don’t believe in God.”

I watched as G-Man’s carefully crafted argument crumbled before his eyes. I don’t think he anticipated that response. He sputtered a bit, before changing tactics.

“Then you can’t celebrate Christmas!”

“Well, I do.”

“But you can’t! Christmas is about God so you can’t celebrate Christmas!”

“I put up a Christmas tree, I do presents, I still celebrate Christmas.”

“But you can’t!”

At this point there really wasn’t any reason for me to keep fighting, G-Man seemed beyond perplexed, and I had nothing to earn here, seeing little value in the respect of someone who probably hadn’t even read Harry Potter. So I walked away.

I suppose “Unique” is a few steps above the teeth-misusing, Christmas fugitive that G-Man had me out to be. So high school me counted my blessings when the awards came out, and I made the cut.

The girl and boy winners in each category had to come in and have our pictures taken for the yearbook. Sarah proudly posed as the Best Dressed girl in the 2012 senior class, wearing a white and red floral dress, a hip denim jacket, and a giant pair of sunglasses. She could have been an extra in High School Musical. I rode up wearing a pair of black patent leather oxford heels, a rainbow patterned bandage skirt, a white tee shirt with a funky Polaroid picture on it (this is pre-Taylor Swift’s Polaroid obsession, I’m very innovative), and a fascinator. Yep, a fucking fascinator. With a little mesh veil that came over my eyes. I won the award alongside a boy who I had known since elementary school. I should add, he never once gave me shit about being vegetarian. Though I guess he has a peanut allergy, so I’m sure he was sympathetic to dietary restrictions. And he brought a light saber to the photo shoot. Yeah, fuck it, I’ll take Most Unique any day.