I keep telling myself that I’ll be monogamous “when I’m ready.” That I’ll fall in love “when I’m ready.” That I’ll really grow up “when I’m ready.” I’ll be an adult “when I’m ready.” But all of this has got me asking: Will I ever be ready?
I look next to my bed. I see the empty tall-boy cans. Too many because I felt the impulse to go back to CVS for a second round. I see my phone balancing on a dirty sock so my alarm won’t startle me as the sunlight squeezes through the cracks in my chocolate brown curtains early in the morning. I’m lying on a mattress with no bedframe in my two bedroom, pre and post college girl apartment and have to wonder: Will I ever be ready?
Am I ever going to stop caring too much about myself to not have drunk make outs and hook ups? Am I ever going to find an apartment with a doorman and make a good living like I have always planned? Am I ever going to have that great idea, that’s right under surface for a best selling novel or book of essays? These questions are always in the back of my head, burning into me a little each day. I’m really fantastic at giving advice and equally as challenged at taking my own. I do a lot of things right, or at least I like to think so, but there are so many mistakes that I make on a regular basis that make me wonder if I’m ever going to be a grown up or if I’ll forever remain in the limbo of a working college girl with questionable morals, that are constantly self justified.
Impulse control. When does that kick in? I’m wondering if there’s some golden age or moment when you wake up and think, “I’m an adult. All of my foolish ways are behind me, and I’m ready to live like I’m in my 30s and have my whole future figured out.” Did I miss the mark? Is the mark coming? I truly hope so because one of my greatest fears in life is waking up at 40 and thinking: Wow I really messed up my life. Already dodged a bullet when I was on the fast track to PR. Luckily I ballsed up and realized being a writer really was the only option.
What life lessons do I need to learn? How many do I need to learn? How many mistakes do I actually have to make before I start making changes? Maybe this is how life will always be. Maybe I won’t ever be ready. Or at least, not the kind of ready I picture in my head. The kind where I have matching furniture, a big apartment on a high floor, with plenty of space and without an urge to drink wine until I fall down instead of just wanting a glass to relax. It’s possible that that picture could never be anything more than a picture. I’m a writer, after all, and the creative lifestyle isn’t always an easy one. I may never be the person I’ve pictured myself becoming, the person I hope that I’m becoming. And then what happens next? Do I accept the frazzled, mattress-bed life style of the starving artist? Maybe the key to all of this is to stop insisting that picture be perfect. Stop insisting that everything be exactly like I want it to be.
The only problem with that is that I know I can never do that. I have a fear of mediocrity that’s why I live an unconventional lifestyle. That’s why I write about love and, why I write this blog; putting my whole life out there for anyone to read so that I’m the one making someone feel less alone instead of relying on someone else to make me feel less alone.
I don’t know what kinds of changes I have to make to get closer to where I want to be because I’ve do what I’m supposed to do so far. I worked hard in school, got an apartment with people I love, and got a job. I can’t help but wonder what happens next because for the first time there is no defined next step.
I feel like I’m caught between two places: college and adulthood, and I’m not quite sure what happens in the interim to get a person from point A to point B. I can’t help but wonder: Will I ever be ready?