Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: 20-something, aging, beauty, life, random, thoughts, women, youth
Tonight’s drink: King Fish Merlot
It’s warm in San Diego, and at 8 a.m. this morning I headed to class in a pair of short shorts and a conservative tee. As a semi-professional young woman, and named editor to a small group of reporters, I repeatedly questioned my choice of attire. Even though I had shaved my legs, and the mirror told me I wasn’t too hoochie, I kept asking myself if I was crossing the image I was trying to make as a respectable, responsible leader.
“What the hell, I’m still young,” I thought as I threw my bag into the car and put the top down. “After all, I am only… 27.”
The thought struck me for two reasons. First, because I won’t be 27 for a little over a week still. And second, because that excuse doesn’t seem to work with that age anymore.
They say that 40 is the new 30, and 50 is the new 40 – so why does the 27 feel like the new 37? Perhaps because the decade of the 20’s is so segmented. 20 is just the age of frustration: no longer a teen, but not yet legal in terms of drinking. 21 through 24 are like the party ages. 25 is sort of the age where reality strikes – where you start to see that 30 is not so far away. So far, 26 and almost 27 have been the ages of recount, and recoil.
You start taking your inventory a little more closely. You no longer work out because it helps you stay toned – you work out because it keeps you from getting fat. You begin to evaluate your professional status with more critique, as well as your love life. You start to feel like you need to keep up – apartments, cars, clothes, education, outlook. Maturity isn’t an option, but a virtue. The late 20s are a sort of scramble to stay young, but be above it. Your late 20s begins the adage of feeling younger than you look.
Nothing aggravates this sensation more, for me, than watching America’s Next Top Model. Women on that show who are at the top of the age limit – I think it’s 24 or 25 – are criticized as looking “old.” The sad thing is that the girls who say this – typically 20 or so – are not entirely wrong. There is something more weathered about their look than the other girls. If they have kids, the effect seems to double.
Zack and I used to talk about “Mom eyes” in some of the women he dated who already had kids. When women have kids, something changes in their face – no matter their age. The eyes become deeper, and softer – the face more angular somehow. Even if these things aren’t factually true, you sense them in the vibes, the aura, whatever you want to call it. Purpose – an external purpose – puts it there. I don’t think that kids are the only things that have this effect. Any pursuit that beats you down some adds a strain to your demeanor, and humility to your face.
“You look younger than your age,” is something all women like to hear. Two years ago, when I was 25, I used to get that a lot. After the way the last year or so has gone, I’m not surprised I haven’t heard it as much. I’ve been alley-smacked by a lot of different experiences, and it ain’t even close to being over. They say smoking and drinking take years from your looks, but I have to argue that life’s tumult does triple the damage, and with more immediate results.
So I run, apply facial masks, pay attention to what I eat and drink lots of water. But the truth is that it really does comes down to mind over matter. You have to be right in your head before any of that other stuff can work its magic.
I try to figure out how to keep my mind youthful in the same way that I’m trying to salvage this body – I’m drawing blanks. All I can think to do is to put my heels on, enhance my still perky boobs, put some makeup on, and assume the fabulous look of carefreedom while I still can.
But, at this moment, I don’t know what I’m going to do when I can’t wear heels anymore.
Filed under: Daily Specials | Tags: apartment, bitter, debt, landlords, lease, life, love, men, random, relationships, rent, single, thoughts, women
Tonight’s drink: Tierra Brisa Merlot
I have to preface this by first saying that I am very lucky to have my apartment. It’s cute, cozy, safe, and cheap, and it has a killer view. The one bummer that I’ve dealt with for the past three or so years is that I live directly next door to my landlady. She sees all, she hears all, she knows way too much about my life for someone who takes a third of my paycheck each month.
There are two primary conditions to my lease: 1) that you must always err on the side of quiet; and 2) that no more than one person is allowed to live in the apartment. The quiet rule, I’ve been busted for on occasion. The one-per-apartment rule has never been an issue until Josh.
Josh spends a lot of time in my apartment, but he doesn’t live here, at least not by my definition. He does have a key, but if we broke up tomorrow, he could walk in, gather his things in both arms, and leave without too much trouble. Definitely no furniture, decorations, coffee mugs or movies. Though he has downloaded a lot of music onto my computer, so that might be sort of a pain. For him.
Anyhow, as individuals, Josh and I are quiet people, for the most part. We’re both pretty internal, so if either one of us is in the apartment alone, no one is the wiser. In the evenings, when we’re together, we watch jeopardy and get a little competitive, but there’s no yelling or slamming eachother. When we have sex, we’re quiet, except for the occasional squeak here and there. We do laugh a lot when we’re together. We do have conversations where there is some inflection. But we rarely fight, and if we do, it’s like two text messages long.
So last night, I came home to a note from my landlady which said that she’d had complaints from other tenants that two people were living in the apartment, and that it was generating a lot of noise. Frankly, I call bullshit on that explanation. If there are any complaints from others about my having a boyfriend, it’s because it’s stirring up a lot of bitterness.
I live a very simple, independent life – I don’t ask much of anyone, I don’t impose myself on others, and I don’t complain about the psychotic guy two doors down who regularly builds things (I’m talking saws and hammers on wood) at 1, 2, 3 a.m.; or my next door neighbor who plays her terrible music loudly, and sings to it with a microphone, karaoke style. Since they continue to do these things, I’m assuming no one else has complained either. Is that because they are doing these things alone, and looking pretty pathetic in the process? No shit – I watched the man have his 70-year-oldish mom help him carry wood into his apartment.
By the nature of our apartments, everyone living here is either single or on the verge (aka, not engaged or married). Whether grouped in a bar or huddled together in an apartment complex, a bunch of single people together begin to grow bitter - especially at the sight of happy couples. By policing the sex lives of its tenants, it’s sort of perpetuating that environment. I have to think that my landlady isn’t so much bothered by the sound of my boyfriend and I laughing over YouTube as she is by the fact that my warm body is a man, and hers is a cat.
Of course, I’m pissed that I’m basically being threatened with eviction for having a relationship, but I can’t afford to move. So, until I finally pay down this debt, I guess I’ll have to sneak Josh into my room when my landlady isn’t looking.
I didn’t see “reversion to high school privileges” in the list of credit card penalties.
