do you think my younger self is proud of me?

in a month and a half, i’m turning 30 years old, and i can’t shut up about it. since i turned 29, i’ve been referring to myself as “almost thirty.” now that the year is nearly over, i’m panicking a little that i wasted away the last year of my twenties by living in the “almost.”

i’ve never been good at the whole “what will be will be” thing. when i was younger, i had a habit of reading the last page of a book before checking it out of the library. i’d stand in the Young Adult section and flip to the end to make sure that the couple got their happily ever after before adding the book to my stack. i didn’t want to waste time on a book without a satisfying, romantic ending.

so often, i wonder what my own last page will say. i have an incessant need to know what’s next (ironic because i’m actually lethally allergic to planning anything).

am i happy on the last page? am i in love? am i successful?

i cannot stand not knowing so i doomsday prep for the what ifs, shifting between zillow and indeed and google job postings for “barista jobs denver.”  would i be happier if i worked a job where i could go to bed at night knowing the espresso machine is clean and the doors are locked, not worried about emails or ROI or low-hanging fruit?

if you have ever been told you’re “too sensitive,” you may be entitled to emails from me:

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now, as time ticks down in my “almost” year, i’m not even sure what successful would look like.

that version of me in the YA section of the library would be stoked to see my resume. she’d look at my camera roll full of mirror selfies and think i’m the coolest b!tch alive. she’s day dreaming about fashion shows and editorial calendars and real, published bylines, and i’m living that dream with a heavy rock in my stomach.

who am i to tell her that those byluines don’t feel quite right? that sometimes they come with the cost of a little bit of my integrity, that they put money in the pockets of people who i don’t always agree with while i’m paying for gas in nickels from the floor of my car? how am i supposed to break the news to her that the dream she worked so hard for is actually a lot more complex than she ever imagined?

i think she would understand if i told her i’m only reworking her dream to protect her, to prevent a cold, greedy world from sucking all the light from her eyes and warmth from her heart. i’d tell her that we’re still writing, that it’s all i can imagine doing and i know she feels the same and has felt that way since mrs. brown told her she was good at it in 3rd grade.

if she could see me, i’m sure she’d recognize  herself in my notebooks full of ideas abandoned after three paragraphs and addiction to romanticizing the seemingly meaningless.

and if my college self could see me, i’m sure she’d recognize herself in the forgotten coffee in the microwave and mostly ignored mulaney on the tv as the clock strikes 2 am. she’d recognize the imprint of the couch cushion on my cheek when my “finish it in the morning” alarm goes off, and she’d recognize my snoozing it for an hour more than i can afford. she’d thinks i deserve five more minutes.

she’d beg me like scrooge at his own grave to wake up, to not for one second stay in situations that don’t feel good. and who am i to deny her?

i guess, if i were to look for a moral within this story, it’s that dreams don’t always have to stay exactly the way you first imagined them. maybe it’s ok for my dreams at almost 30 to look different from the dreams of a 13 year old finding escape in a book about teen love. the world has changed, and so have i. i have to find my way back to a dream that feels good.

my only problem now is figuring out what that looks like. for now, i’d just like to start writing for me again.