Birthday thoughts

Quick!  Somebody get the blond a fake ID

Hookahs bars are the nightclubs for the underage.  S and I both observed this when we went out for hookah a few weeks ago while I was in the Bay.  The first 40 minutes of hookah are terrific—it’s not too loud or too noisy, we can smoke however much we want, plenty of elbow space and few people.  Then the bar becomes a club for the underage, those who desperately want to tear the dance floor up, but they aren’t old enough or haven’t got the fake ID, whichever one it is.  And there was one girl in the bar, who so obviously wanted to be older.  The blond in a tight tube top and booty shorts, dancing with her hair flowing through the smoke, grinding on her friends who were giggling and posing in front of the camera shouting out, Facebook! Primping back and forth on the floor like someone was really looking at her.  And believe me, S and I were way more critical as we laughed at her, with our bottles of water and vegan brownies, taking puffs between all the madness.  Someone should’ve told her not to wear those shoes, I said.  And that hoochie outfit?  No way would her real friends’ve let her run out the house looking like that, Sarah chimed in.  S had gotten rid of her hoochie dresses her last birthday, when she turned 25.  Even throughout our snickering and cackling we felt the real it is come on, and it wasn’t from the hookah.  It was a slower high that reminded us we weren’t so young anymore.  Or at the very least, not young enough to wear our mistakes were excusable—like wearing granny clogs with booty shorts and a tube top (it was horrendous).

I never imagined myself as being that type of person.  The type of person who judged and castigated, the type who made fun of others for their youth and inexperience.  Was I doing it because I was jealous of her or wanted to trade places with her?  Not really.  I don’t remember youth being a fun time in my life.  In fact, 18 year old life was pretty drab and dark, amidst a lot of uncertainty over how to properly conduct myself around others, and often feeling like I’d failed.  Any little mistake felt like the end of the world, and I don’t get the impression this girl felt that way about her life.  Or she was putting on a show, which is a necessary survival skill to endure being a young adult.  So no, I do not want to be young again.  I don’t want to be in a place of my life where it felt like all those options were out on the table and to be arrogant enough to reject them for a night of partying.  Granted, we were two different 18 year olds but I saw some of the same qualities in that blond—the arrogance and pride that masked a certain doubt.  The need to be seen and heard all the time in order to cover up insecurities.  I’m happy I’m in a place where I don’t need to do all that, but then I wonder, why is the youth always wasted on the youth?  18 year old girls are in their prime physically, in the space of their lives to look their best.  It’ll all go downhill from there.  (Well, I think I look better than I did at 18 but that’s me).  Once you get older you start to notice changes in your body.  Veins become visible in your hands.  Bruises show up more easily and don’t go away as quickly. You forget stuff.  It becomes harder to breathe sometimes.  You become more aware of your feelings and surroundings so surprise!  You become more self-aware.  However, you become more aware of your feelings and surroundings so surprise!  You know your limitations and at times that’s scary.  Nice to know, but you also no longer feel like your superman. 

Age is a weird thing.  Unless you die young, you have to deal with it on a constant basis, and I realize the older I get there will be more signs that I’m no longer a spritely 18 year old.  It’s nice to know that I can see around corners but not so nice to remember those experiences and the older I get, the more corners I’ll be able to see around, but the more corners I can see my opportunities for certain experiences will close up.  For a long time I thought the only place I’d feel like this would be in terms of motherhood.  Since my childhood, I saw motherhood as the opening of some doors but the closing of others.  Doors that would permanently close if I made such a decision.  Now, getting older is very much the same thing.  Now that I’m in S. Korea, I do realize I may not have as many opportunities to do other things because I chose this thing.  The more experiences I have as a single person later in life may decrease my chance or finding a life partner or being a mother if I’d like.  So there are doors that will permanently close as I get older, but in a way, I savor the streamlining of opportunities because it’ll make my choices easier.  It’s easier to make a decision if you have fewer choices.  But this is what being 27 is all about for me.  It’s all about choices.  Choices that may not be an option later on.  Sure, I don’t have as many opportunities as that blond with the horrible fashion sense, but I can confidently say I’m happier now that I was at 18 or any other time in my life.

A friend of mine once said that woman age quickly. That she’ll be interested in developing herself until she turns 26—then, it’ll be all about having babies and getting a husband.  Well, at 27 I can say that I have no desire for either.  Although my lack of desire sometimes makes me feel like I am less of a woman.  That I should be pursuing that.  But I’m not.  And I’m happy where I’m at.  I still like to think I’ve got plenty of time for that, but if not, that’s fine too.

I realize I haven’t said much about what happened on my actual birthday.  To summarize, I went to a Korean restaurant and had typical cold soup and then went to a kitty café with a few other trainees whom I hope to become friends with.  But that feels like it belongs on a separate entry.  I wanted to get a beer but it’s late, I have to get up early and I want to make a good impression on the trainers.  The entire week is about observation.  My next few weeks are going to be nuts.  I have to adjust to a new time zone, set up shop and train for a new job—along with fighting off jet lag.  So I may not update as often and I may change the whole format.  And for those of you on the postcard list, it may take a while before I can send you something.