Sailing into 35

A few thoughts on my birthday

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When I turned 25, I wrote a post on the original iteration of The Wilder Things, the blog that I started in college (it is now lost to the internet forever, so don’t try to Google it). I quoted F. Scott Fitzgerald, as does any 25-year-old who recently discovered that this man wrote more than just The Great Gatsby. I started the post with this passage, from his short story called Cracking Up: 

"Before I go on with this short history, let me make a general observation—the test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function. One should, for example, be able to see that things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them otherwise. This philosophy fitted on to my early adult life, when I saw the improbable, the implausible, the "impossible," come true. Life was something you dominated if you were any good. Life yielded easily to intelligence and effort, to what proportion could be mustered of both."

Then I wrote this:

My mother says she never felt older than the day she turned 25. While I've yet to actually hit the age, I get what she means. There's this sense of impending doom; maybe because it means the excuse of "I'm a dumb kid just out of college who doesn't know what she's doing" is no longer valid. If you're over 25 you're probably rolling your eyes, thinking how young I still am, how little I still know, and I'd agree with you. But this is the first birthday where I've felt that I'm actually a real adult human. That decisions matter more, that the stakes are somewhat higher.

And yet at the same time that I'm kind of totally freaking out, I do know that so much of my life is before me and that so much is still possible. That (fingers crossed, because that alternative totally sucks) the best is still to come. I feel very much the way Fitzgerald describes; any obstacle, no matter how seemingly insurmountable, is actually completely surmountable. I can feel hopeless and sad and there's still always a glimmer of light in the back of my brain saying, "whatever is going wrong will get better." And I believe (perhaps due to the folly of youth?) that with a little bit of "intelligence and effort," my life will become what I want it to become (I say as I knock on wood).

I often, maybe always, feel two things at once. Ambivalence is constant. That's why I write, because it's a way of sorting out all the confusion, or at least making the two ideas or feelings or possibilities exist on the same page at the same time with some semblance of reason.

As I head towards March 25, I feel really old and really young at the same time. And that's okay.

Today is my 35th birthday. Ten years later, some things have changed, and some things have not. I’m still superstitious, afraid of jinxing what I hope for by saying it out loud. I knock on wood/cross my fingers multiple times a day.

I also still feel really old and really young at the same time. In fact, I’ve never felt older or younger than I did a few weeks ago while talking to Sandy, a lovely Geico customer service lady. Did I have a panic attack? Yes. Did I eventually figure out the problem without calling my dad? Also yes. 

Ambivalence is still constant, I still write to sort out confusion, and still think about that quote from Fitzgerald. Life is certainly simpler when things are black or white, but most are gray. You have to accept contradictions if you want to approach the truth. I wouldn’t be able to write about sports — or anything — without being able to hold at least “two opposed ideas in the mind at the same.”

What has changed since I wrote that post is that I’m no longer terrified to get older. When I read that post now, I can still feel the burning ambition and desire that sat somewhere just below my ribcage. I wanted a career, I wanted love, and I wanted to know that everything would be okay. I hoped that “intelligence and effort” would get me where I wanted to go, but I didn’t know the way. 

Given that I quoted my mom when I turned 25, I asked her what she would say to me ten years later. 

“It’s as if you’ve been working out,” she said. “And doing all this training. And one day, you go to lift something heavy, and it feels like nothing. And you’re really surprised, but it’s because you’ve been working for a long time to get stronger.” 

What metaphor would I use to describe getting older? I wondered. And when I closed my eyes and thought about it, I saw a boat. This could be because I recently finished The Wager, by David Grann, and I’ve got ships on the brain. Or because yesterday I accidentally dressed like I was waiting for an invitation to board a yacht. Or because I just really love boats. Regardless, please come on this voyage with me.

Ten years ago, I was sailing my imaginary boat, but I didn’t realize I was the captain. This fictional vessel was one of those 38-foot fiberglass cruisers that didn’t have much ballast and wasn’t very steady. But it was shockingly resilient, could go very fast, and had no problem heading into rough seas. On board, I was both unquestioningly confident and very scared all the time. I couldn’t predict the weather very well, so I alternated between getting caught in squalls and sitting in unexpected doldrums. I spent a lot of time on land (my parents’ house) patching up the hull after I’d run aground. 

All types of people came on board with me. Some of them were wonderful and taught me aspects of navigation. Some of them were not wonderful; I often ignored my instincts and didn’t make them walk the plank until they’d already steered me off course. 

At some point, in my late twenties, I realized that I was the one fully in charge of this expedition. I reinforced my boat with carbon fiber (psychiatry). I did my best to plot my own course, but I was unfamiliar with the seas. I just hadn’t spent enough time in them yet.

So, when someone would say, “Hey, sail over here,” I’d give it a shot. This took me to many fascinating places (the Kentucky Derby, a graveyard in Las Vegas, a demolition derby and lobster boat races in Maine), places that made me nervous (ATVing with a former NFL coach, NASCAR races), and places I will happily never go to again (the Mall of America). It also took me to several media companies with varying degrees of success.

Then there were the stretches of time when the wind died and I was alone on the boat, wondering if I would ever go anywhere again or find anyone to come with me. 

On the eve of 35, I am standing at the helm of a sturdy, wooden schooner (the fiberglass morphed into wood because the boat’s back started hurting when she hit 33). I’m wearing one of those black, wide-brimmed captain's hats with feathers in it and a velvet, double-breasted coat fastened with gold buttons. I don’t care if I look ridiculous. I know where I’m more likely to find rocks lurking just underneath the surface. I know which ports are safe and which to avoid. Storms still hit all the time, but I’m better at battening down the hatches.

The vibes I’m channeling as I head into 35

This metaphor is now way too long and we are dangerously close to the Sea of Corny. But I do feel less “fuck-with-able” now then I did a decade ago. Even five years ago! I was terrified to turn thirty. Our culture’s obsession with wunderkinds made me worry that I would cease to be relevant when I was no longer eligible for the 30 Under 30 list. The most embarrassing thing I can tell you is that, as I left 29 behind, I was bummed that I was never chosen for it. 

And yet, when I woke up on the morning of my thirtieth birthday, I felt freer than I ever had. I didn’t realize how hard I’d been racing against some imaginary clock, some measure of youth that really meant nothing. Suddenly, I had all this time stretching out before me to live my life. Saying “I’m thirty years old” felt like a coat of armor that I hadn’t had before.

I don’t know how I’ll feel ten, twenty, thirty years from now, but I do know that at this point, every birthday since 30 has only made me feel more in control of myself. I also know how lucky I am to get older. How fortunate I am to be able to dream.

Perhaps the biggest change since I wrote that post ten years ago is that I know my life isn’t mine alone. I might be the only person who can steer this ship, but I wouldn't make it through any day without my husband, my family, my friends — and my existence would be meaningless if I didn't help all of them do so, too. I can't do my job without coworkers who make my ideas better and then turn them into things you can watch and listen to. I wouldn’t be able to write anything if you, the people reading this right now, didn’t find it worthwhile or interesting.

In a vacuum, I’m just a 35-year-old woman stuck on a boat in a metaphor. But with the people I cherish around me, I can keep going somewhere (knock on wood).