An Ode to 30 and a Nod to My 20s
When I was a freshman in high school, I looked up to the seniors as if they were so much older than me — hoping one day I’d be “that cool.” I watched episodes of Friends, thinking to myself that the characters were freaking ancient. They had jobs (if you consider sitting around a coffee house for hours on end a legitimate form of employment), relationships, and even the character Joey — who never quite seemed to grow up — represented more of a legitimate human being than I’d ever be. It all seemed so far off, so foreign…until it wasn’t.
As you grow older, your perception changes. High school seniors nowadays look hauntingly similar to the infants some of my classmates have recently been giving birth to in rapid succession. That episode of Friends when Monica gets super trashed before her surprise 30th birthday party is now extremely relatable (“I’M DRUNNNNK!”), and is probably an accurate representation of events that will be taking place later this evening.
I remember viewing my Mom as an “all-knowing grown up.” While I still think of her as intelligent (hi, Mom, if you’re reading this), I now realize she, and the rest of our parents from Generation X or the judgmental army of Baby Boomers, are just people. She gave birth to me when she was two years younger than I’m turning today (wow) — making it even more obvious to me that our parents are just like us… growing up a little more each day, rising to challenges, and just trying to figure things out as they go.
My 20s had some of the highest highs and lowest lows. The death of my father to cancer was both awful and eye opening. Dealing with that kind of loss when I was just 24 has granted me entry into a club that no one particularly wants to join, but a club that helps you understand an inevitable part of life that not everyone has had to face yet.
Someday, if you’re lucky to live long enough, each of you will experience the loss of a family member or close loved one — and it’s a blessing and a curse. It provides the unique ability to relate to, and help, other people who experience similar losses and that, in itself, is a gift. I hope I’ve stepped up to the plate when faced with this kind of situation in recent years, and I know the newest club members will go on to help their friends and family deal with loss in similar ways as they bravely go on with the rest of their lives without that special person.
Another club this loss has allowed me to join is the “don’t sweat the small stuff club.” I admit I can be a bit of a stress ball at times, but I simply won’t let the little inconveniences of life get to me anymore. Life is too short. I have better things to do than get heatedly mad at Phyllis in accounting because she screwed up my direct deposit.
This is another “gift” I try to share with the people in my life — life is fragile and fleeting. We have a finite amount of time here, and any amount of energy spent overreacting to something small could undoubtedly be channeled in a more positive way.
My brother and I were recently talking about the concept of absurdism, which is the belief that human beings exist in a purposeless, chaotic universe. In philosophy, according to Wikipedia, “the Absurd” refers to the conflict between the human tendency to seek inherent value and meaning in life and the human inability to find any. While I find this concept interesting because seeking or thinking about “the meaning of life” is something that hurts my head so much I usually give up within 10 minutes and turn on Netflix, I did come to the conclusion that I do believe life has meaning, even if our minds are powerless to truly pinpoint what that meaning may be.
In my 30 years of existence, I have found my own definition of meaning in my interactions with other people. I make mistakes, but overall I try to be a decent person who helps the people I care about navigate their struggles. I hope making someone’s day a little better is meaningful enough to you to keep getting out of bed with a smile each day, because it’s certainty worth it to me.
I am thankful to these same people who have helped me navigate this thing called life in immeasurable ways, as well.
Cheers to 30 more,
Kara
