It seems that many conversations of the past, and more so of the current (boom—awkward use of parallelism for you), orbit around the “it” factor. Do you have “it”? Do you have that perfected cocktail of intrinsic talent, matured experience and elastic resiliency that keeps you bouncing back from failure better than before–you, but the update?
No, early-30s is not old. But, it’s not young. This is the tragedy of us millennials—most of us made it to adulthood, went to a decent university, have a degree (or degrees plural) and established/settled into careers (residing in varied locales along the spectrum of satisfaction) relatively unscathed. We have benefits packages—CDs and 401Ks and tax deferred annuities, oh my! We get paid sick and personal days and still manage to justify playing hooky from work. Many of us have picked ourselves up from the fallout of heartbreak (and/or divorce, or divorces—yikes!), have scraps of an evolving family we created, or own a socially acceptable pet, or a socially unacceptable pet, routinely devote time to hone the skillset of obscure hobbies (because we want to work the topic into conversations with strangers and up our virtual cool-quotient), a house in the burbs, a condo/co-op in the city, have epic, well-decorated passports, have experimented (insert all applicable variables under that umbrella of a term here); and yet, we still—feel—gipped. Somehow…
Maybe it’s because a lot of us were told we were special in our childhoods, but—yes, but—only a few of us really are—special. We have decided, and collectively so, that our identity and reaching “it,” whatever “it” and its permutations may be, are one. We are as much defined by “it” as we are by our DNA. Our well-inflated egos (nurtured for decades by parents that told us we could be anything) kept us buoyant and in denial even. “Training wheels and floaties are for pussies!” we told ourselves. “Get them off!” And, off they came. Maybe we took them off too early. Yet, secretly kept them in our closets (for safe-keeping, we said). For the day when reality hits us hard, the day when our cocksure attitude expires. Or, maybe we never needed them in the first place. A few scraped knees and some water in the lungs builds resilience–float like a butterfly and sting and shit because the day will come when–we—do—make—it! It’s just not as easy as we initially thought.
I think I have “it.” I think writing is my “it.” But, maybe it’s not “it.” Maybe my writing is just as worthless as all the nameless stars in the galaxy. Like globular cluster M107, this blog is a simple dot in the cyberverse—definitive web address, the equivalent of coordinates on an x-y plane, but nothing more than an unmentionable, light years from being relevant… Time will tell. For now, my training wheels and floaties are still in my figurative closet hunting dust bunnies because I am uncertain and I am afraid and I don’t like admitting it. It’s probably time to clean out that closet.