Sushi Love

There we were last night, sitting side by side in a sushi restaurant, contemplating the meaning of our twenties.

Is 23 your mid-twenties? Or are you lucky if you get to push that off until you're 24? By 29, have you resigned yourself to the approach of 30?

I'm about to turn 23. I always thought that by 23, I'd be this successful, beautiful, somehow totally organized person. Obviously, that was some sort of pipe dream. Jacob laughed when I told him this. "I don't feel any older," he said. "Do I look older?"
"I still see all of us the same way I saw us when we were 17," I told him. And that's true. In my mind, somehow, I stopped aging at some point and am still 17. It happened previously around the age of 12, when I became aesthetically aware of myself for the first time. That sounds weird, but it was at that point that I became incredibly self-conscious about the way I appeared to other people.

And now, since I'm still battling the ravages of teenage acne and adjusting to the newly developed hips, I don't feel glamorous or 23. I just feel like I've entered adolescence all over again. Navigating the adult world is much like navigating your freshman year of high school. Or even freshman year of college. It's exciting, and it's fun, but it's also really scary, and at no point do you ever feel comfortable or adequate. But looking back, you realize if you'd just taken ten deep breaths and calmed the fuck down, you'd have been fine. Because you were fine.

It was all in your head.

Not to say that I'm not happy or infinitely more confident and secure than I was at 14. Even the last two years have brought about phenomenal personal and spiritual (and maybe even some intellectual) growth.

We were sitting next a lone woman, eating dinner and worrying about something showing up on her receipt. Business trip, I thought. She carried herself with a nervous air, as though this was the first time she'd found herself eating dinner alone in a strange city.
Next to her sat the woman who somehow doesn't look like she belongs in Denver. Her feet clad in Christian Louboutins, her hat cocked just so to accentuate her styled blonde hair, her facial features swathed in soft layers of mkeup. But reeking of privilege and confidence. (Not that those have to fall together. But they might. And do.)
And there I sat. Feeling 22.

But then dinnner came and my fears were washed away as I realized that there are parts of me that surpass some 30 year olds.

Jacob and I spent the after dinner moments scribbling awkward drawings on the back of the receipts and I realized that I'd never give up my youth to masquerade as someone I'm not and will never be.

Maturity isn't an outward characteristic, not something you can buy in 24 carat gold. (Ew, don't ever buy me anything gold, thanks.) That posturing doesn't show depth of character, or taste, or class. It shows that you've got money to burn (although I'd happily burn some for these). 

And so as we walked up the entrance ramp to the West deck of Cherry Creek mall discussing the disparity between doing what you love and doing what you have to do to survive, I felt secure.

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams, they say. I'm off, marching confidently onwards, it's just too bad I have no idea where that is.

Awake

Beautiful day, beautiful mood.
Is there anything better?

My mouth is gin dry, my hair limp, my body sore, and my mind gorgeously foggy.
My attention span is zapped; my day smacks of endless repetition; I am content. (Every time I write a triadic sentence, I flash back to Mr. Hilbert's classroom. I am 17 again. AP English is the bane of my existence. I'll never forget Mary Hayes' sentence:  He was grotesque; he was ugly; he was my prom date. - or something to that affect.)
These are the waning days of my youth, after all.

The night began with the procedures of self-preservation and ended with the tossing out of all best intentions, but doesn't that describe the best nights?

Woke up surrounded by cloud-white sheets. Rolled over and groaned at the coming day.

Oddly fulfilled.

I also have some nasty dubstep playing. There is not enough RedBull in the world to contain me. Or to fuel my future.

Off to be productive, to produce, to hit the grind....whatever it is that the corporate world might be.

On a sidenote, my desk is a hand-me-down (obviously). It's full of odds and ends, and they're all perfect for someone with my small attention span. My current obsession? A stamp that simply says "Acknowledgement." We are nearly paperless, although I find myself stamping things just so I can see the remnants of the 80s business mentality on paper. Acknowledgement.

It's almost as good as the PostIt that said "Relocate." Apparently I wrote it, although I'm not sure what for or why. I got into work one day, and there it was, sitting on my computer. "Relocate." I was furious - they don't want me? They don't like me here and the subtle reminder was there. Relocate.
Turns out, I had set it there. Of course. It was a cute joke for awhile.

Love your day, love your life.

Also, I miss Carlos. Jacob has him. And they're happy. I'm jealous.

Death and then more war

I am more of a pacifist than I'd like to believe.
I don't support the killing of anyone.
I don't support any war.
I get that sometimes it's "necessary" but the days of the World Wars have long since collapsed into wars of greed masked with good intentions.
The best of intentions don't always lead to the best of outcomes - instead, we find ourselves mired in wars we can't pay for, wars that kill our naive kids, wars that tear apart families and countries yet don't bring the peace we'd hoped for.
The rebuilding takes years. The pain lasts forever.
The world is not a better place for our occupations; it's merely a little bit more burdened, heavy with the right hand of America, that democratic bastard.

I don't believe anyone should be celebrating the death of Osama bin Laden. I don't think we've done anything other than kill someone else. He'll become a statistic, as monumental as the toppling of the statue that stood in Baghdad. This day will be a memory. Nothing more. It is not the end. There is no winning. Not even Charlie Sheen can say that today.

And while I do appreciate that it's finally done - and now hopefully our tides of propaganda can shift our focus elsewhere - I regret that it's taken so long, taken so many misfires, taken so much American abuse of lands and peoples that don't belong to us.

And of course, we didn't even tell Pakistan we were going to do it. I understand why. But I think it will ultimately hurt our already fragile relationship with that country.

We dumped his body in the sea. I will give us credit for supposedly giving him a proper goodbye according to Islamic law.

In and out, swift justice for the wounded, for the dead, for the future.
Is it really justice?
Was it really worth it?

Is all that death for one life justification of creating the hell we thought we were trying to end?

Now let's move on.
We'll take the soft uptick in the markets that is sure to follow, we'll take the slight jump of poll numbers, we'll take the fuzzy bipartisan feelings reminiscent of a night spent on ecstasy, but we shouldn't let it swell our already full heads.

I read one blog today that mentioned planting peace roses.
I'm for that.
Let's remind the world that all this bombing and killing and bloodshed is supposed to achieve one thing: peace.

Don't tell your kids we won.
We didn't.
Because there is no we.

(I was listening to a man on NPR talk about Muslims and how he didn't feel any negativity towards them - good, why should he? - and how they felt the same way "we" did. Thanks man, for really showing the separation "we've" created. Who is us and what are they?)

Teach peace and compassion.
Teach understanding and love.
And hope that somewhere, some of those lessons take root in our souls.