So apparently I turn 29 today.
And, it is an absolutely terrifying notion.
I was ten years old when I decided life was good. I starred in a 300 kid performance, I was a rugged, strong little badass totally at home in her yet unchanging body, and I liked the roundness of the number. I figured I’d peaked. And so, for my 11th birthday I took a candle off the cake and turned ten again. And again, a year later, two candles for my 12th. I was a tall, gangly twelve year old who would tell inquiring adults with wide, innocent, unblinking eyes that I was ten. And when they expressed skepticism, I shrugged cooly and told them they could believe what they wanted. When I turned 13 I gave it up; I had the sense that there is only so long you can fight the tide without being pathetic.
I honestly don’t remember my 20th birthday— I was in New York City, and shortly after fell in love for the first time and thought to myself about time!— but probably it felt just as scary and momentous. I adored my teens, once I accepted them. Something about this 29 thing, though… last year in my 20s. Mad scary.
Half a decade ago I made a pact with myself that there was no pressure to have life “figured out” while I was in my 20s. They were for adventure, and growing, and playing and experimenting and traveling and loving and going in a thousand different directions and non of them had to be “real life” or “adult” yet. It was a good pact, and kept me saying Yes! to the wildest things the last nine years, allowing me access to a vitality and spontaneity that we typically think of as the providence of “youth.” And as such, keeping me mentally and, I think, behaviorally and in expression, ‘youthful.’ It is funny that, in my early 20s people always guessed I was older. I think because I was tall, and knew how to ask questions and actually listen to the answers. (So few people, still, I’ve found, know how to do this.) And these last few years my age gets underguessed— and I think it is because I have managed to mostly dodge the self conscious and very adult fear of ‘looking silly’, and so my eyes still light up when I’m delighted, and my giggle still rings out, and if there is an opportunity to dance I will always take it even if no one else is dancing. Here is Europe they roll their eyes and say I’m being American— but, I think they don’t realize I’m also just being me.
The reality probably is that, even though the massive and daunting 3 0 is approaching (though I think the panic is less about turning 30 in a year than leaving my 20s behind forever?) I, myself, the Shanan that I’ve created and practiced and manifested and tuned— doesn’t have to change with that number. My much younger and then teenage ex used to tell me that I was ‘the youngest 25 year old he’d ever met,’ and I liked that. As I sit, drinking my coffee at a cafe over looking the harbor in Cannes, the sun making me regret my choice of leggings though this morning, feeling the crisp onslaught of winter tinging the air, I was glad of them and the boy’s fleece I had shruggingly grabbed, I reason I can be the youngest 29 year old anyone has ever met as well. This is a comforting thought, and one I will hold onto, though I still pessimistically fear that the mentality will last no longer past my 20s than the fast-dissapearing warmth of this year’s summer. Seasons changing. That, too, has always been what my birthday signifies— an end of another summer; the start of another school year; a shift of chapters.
This European chapter isn't over yet, but, while I’m here and writing for you all, a detour into some musings, and a bit more procrastinating on the writing I actually need to be doing. Some quick European inspired thoughts and observations:
I am very American in many ways: I’m loud, gregarious, and I fucking miss coffees that are bigger than four sips. No like, for real. Love the little European pocket coffees that go with the pocket apartments and pocket cars… but I want to order a coffee and have it be a drink, rather than a sip.
They have things here called towel warmers, and they heat your towels and the whole bathroom if you time it right. Mental.
I had lovely adventures in Sanremo climbing buildings, the act of which helped shake the weeks-long funk I had been in. Really, all it takes for me to be happy is to climb something. (I’m a simple girl at heart! :p) Give me something moderately sketchy to get on top of (lol) and the joy comes flooding in. (Double looooool! Ahem!)
I love the multitude of languages and am flagrantly American in my absolute inability to speak any of them except English. Working on it. Slowly. Sort of.
And oh my gosh regattas! Ummm, I LOVE sailing boats! And I love being surrounding by incredible people who also LOVE sailing boats! And I LOVE beautiful classic boats! It has been so incredibly awesome to have spent the last two weeks racing in Cannes and then Les Voiles de Saint Tropez. A dream come true. Also, our race crew celebrated my birthday a week early by chucking me in the water as per Naema tradition. Apparently I put up a record fight. Really good times, and really I feel like that was the highlight of this whole conceptual birthday celebration. Really lovely moments. Stuff is happening, yall. Sometimes, with verve and work and persistence and charm and skill and luck and timing… we can make things happen.
28 has been…. mostly incredible; and also incredibly hard. Momentous waves of glittering, accumulated droplet moments of sweet and sour and effervescent LIFE. I’m proud of this last year, I think. Proud of the highs I manifested and the lows I rode with grace. Proud of the art and the adventures and the career steps and the many talks and the many listens, proud that my eyes still light up and that I still laugh so loudly and annoyingly and unselfconsciously. Proud of my strong (albeit slightly broken) body and proud of my strong, open, and mending heart.
Terrified of the looming concept of “getting older” and yet at least, looking back, I don’t feel I’ve squandered. And, as how we use our time is the only thing we really have any control over, as the inevitability of time is, well, just that, the very definition of inevitable— I suppose that shrugging off this notion of trapping age is the next shift. Shrugging it off, and looking forward with bright eyes and an eager grin. Ready.
Deep breath and…
Plunge.
Comments