I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But I have always been practical and logical, the kind of person who pursues a degree in business at a state school in northern California instead of a degree in creative writing at a private school in New York. Not that I didn’t want to go to New York. We didn’t have the money to send me and I had this witch of a college counselor who told me that my best option was a state school and sent me on my way, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. I can still feel that first bitter taste of disappointment, that first compromise.
But I’m getting to the middle of my twenties and I’m not a thin, brilliant writer/paleontologist/model with an apartment full of books. I’m working pretty hard to scratch the surface of relevance and fight this severe, angular thing my face does that I really don’t appreciate. Instagram models piss me off and then I piss myself off for being a bad feminist. Being a young person right now is exhausting. What about back when college was just like a year in some castle/school and then you called it a day and became a governess. Is that still a thing? Like I’d be okay at that. I wouldn’t teach your kids swear words and I wouldn’t fall in love with the eccentric billionaire single dad who kept his fucking ex-wife up in the attic, Jesus Christ Charlotte Bronte who hurt you??
Late one Sunday afternoon you are writing out your rent check and realize it’s been exactly a year since you started working out. You think of all those miles you’ve run and those pounds you’ve lifted and chicken you’ve eaten and puddles you’ve made. It doesn’t seem that bad. You realize that it’s not about hitting a goal weight, or lifting a weight. It’s about being able to wait. Waiting, being patient, and trusting that life will slowly inch along and things will eventually get better. After all, change takes time.