Terrible Twenties

Because some of us might never grow out of our Terrible Twenties.

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Terrible Twenties Has MOVED!

Hi all!

After 7.5 years, I’ve decided to retire Terrible Twenties. We had a good run here on Tumblr.

Don’t worry, you can still find me blogging at my new site: MissHezah.com

You can also follow me on Insta  or Twitter @MissHezah, and sign up for my weekly-ish newsletter at tinyletter.com/misshezah. 

See you ‘round the interwebs!

Heather

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It’s The End of An Era

Oh hey, remember me? I don’t blame you if you don’t. This is what I look like now. It’s honestly been that long.

You’ve probably noticed that I haven’t been writing here very much ...oh man, for the past year, really. 

Anyway, I’ll cut to the chase. This is the conversation we have before we officially break up. I’ve had a lot of these conversations in my life, mostly with me initiating, and it never gets easier.

This is my last official blog post here. 

You had to see it coming though, right? I only posted ten times in the past year. Besides, I’m a 32-year-old hanging onto a twenty-something blog.

On my 29th birthday, I brought a poster board and markers to the gathering I was having at a bar. I instructed everyone to use the poster to brainstorm new blog ideas since I was exiting my terrible twenties and would potentially need a new blog brand. While my friends came up with some very interesting ideas, I ultimately decided to keep the blog as is and expand the sentiment into my thirties. Shutting it down felt like giving up on something with which I’d come so far.

The next year on my 30th birthday, I hosted a Terrible Twenties live storytelling show to publicly say goodbye to my twenties and all the mistakes, pain, fun, and growth I’d experienced. It was cathartic and special, just as any goodbye worth its weight in tears should be.

Yet, despite these declarations, I still didn’t let it go. I kept trying to square peg this blog into the round shape my life had become. 

I wasn’t ready to let it go for three reasons:

I quite literally wasn’t ready to move on from my twenties.

I didn’t know where I was headed or what I was as writer/expressive person beyond this identity.

I was in denial that this blog had a clear expiration date.

And so, I’ve let myself sit in a weird sort of limbo for the last couple years, writing here when I felt inspired and admonishing myself when I did not. In that time, I also built a different website to house my projects, but not to create, and a weekly newsletter that eventually tapered into silence. I diverted my attention to so many projects I could never land on one thing. I felt pretty bad about this lack of focus and commitment for a while.

In retrospect, this string of false starts, and lackluster attention to this blog, with which I’d come to feel a little too comfortable, seems messy because it was. All processes are messy and big moves don’t happen overnight. Sometimes they take several years to figure out! I realize this now that I’m out of the thick of it.

So, here I am on the brink of 33 and I’m ready to let go. I’m at peace with the end of this era. I’m even cool with letting the 43 half-baked posts sitting in drafts remain unfinished. 

It was a good era. 

Like many millennials, I learned so much from the Tumblr community. For a while, it was the creative wild west. Anyone could say or post anything, and hell, even get a book deal. Tumblr had a major moment in the social media world, and Terrible Twenties had a major moment in mine. I feel lucky that our worlds collided when they did. 

I never did get that book deal, but I’m still glad to have been part of the weird machine. Before I started this blog, I had a creative writing degree, but I wasn’t writing. I had friends, but none who were writers. I found both of those things here.

Your favorite spot to hang won’t always be appealing. Places change ownership; people grow up and away. Moments aren’t meant for forever. That’s why they’re just moments. And most of the time, it’s the expiration dates that widen our apertures enough to reveal value and meaning in the context of something bigger.

Did you know I originally started this blog to be an anthology of sorts? If you go all the way back to the beginning, you’ll see that my original intention for Terrible Twenties was to be an executive editor, curating everyone else’s twenty-something narratives. I even made everyone include their age with the byline so you could see how radically different every year of your twenties feels. I guess you could say, I was trying to start Thought Catalog before I knew that was a thing.

I actually almost gave up on this blog about a year and a half in to start something new, which is my signature move when I get restless with a project. I had just gone through a breakup, needed something new, had grown bored of soliciting people’s stories, and like I said...Thought Catalog was doing it a lot better.

But instead, I decided to have some damn resolve for once and keep going with Terrible Twenties to focus on my own twenty-something journey, chronicling one person’s ongoing adult growing pains.

In writing about myself under a specific lens for over seven years I learned that I have the discipline and the ability to let my work evolve enough to be a real writer. I learned how to be vulnerable. I learned to share other people’s work. I learned to hate my writing. I learned to be OK with not writing. I learned that I love giving advice and am terrible at copyediting my own writing. I learned that people like to read lists about...anything. Absolutely anything.

I honestly don’t have the time to condense everything I’ve learned from seven and a half years of writing this blog into one post, but there is one key lesson I will leave with you.

Don’t ever start a blog with a specific decade in the title. It’s limiting. 

Thank you for reading all 823 blog posts. Thank you to anyone who sent me a question to answer with advice. Thank you to my friends for letting me use our gchat conversations as fodder. Thank you for being interested. Thank you for engaging in thoughtful conversation. Thank you for helping me make it through my twenties and a little bit beyond. Thank you to anyone who has alerted me to a typo or misspelling in one of my posts after I’ve hastily pressed “post now.” Honestly, that was very helpful.

While I’m retiring this blog, I’m not retiring from blogging. I’m only 32, after all!

I’m going to miss Terrible Twenties. Even though I’m not in the thick of my own anymore, I carry them with me every day. I’ll continue to do so in my next project, which I’ve been working on for the past couple months. When I’m ready to share very soon, I’ll hope you’ll join me, and we can pick up right where we left off like no time has passed.

And no, it’s not going to be called Thriving Thirties.

xo,

Heather, 32

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Lady Bird & Adult Teenage Angst

I slip through the double doors and immediately recognize the movie has already started. With a small Diet Coke and Sprite in either hand, I crab-walk a few feet to the seat my friend had saved in the back of the theater and sit down in a folding chair against the back wall because this is the small cheap theater, and the price you pay for a movie ticket under $15 in Los Angeles in 2017.

“She’s mad at her mom. She broke her arm trying to get out of the car,” my friend tries to catch me up in whispers as she takes the Sprite from my hand.

“Wait, how long has the movie been going?” I ask slightly panicky, gulping my Diet Coke.

“Like ten minutes.”

“I thought it started at 7:45.”

“No, 7:20.”

“I thought you were going to get to the theater at 7:20.”

“No. I sent you a screenshot of the times!”

“You did. I must have been looking at a different movie. Were there good previews?”

“There weren’t any.”

I feel good about that at least. 

I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to put contextual pieces together as we’re introduced to Lady Bird, her friends, and her what I assume to be relatable Catholic school idiosyncracies.

I lean over to my friend again, “What year does this take place? Early 2000s?” I haven’t done much research on the movie. I already know I’ll like it because I like Greta Gerwig, coming of age stories, and everyone on Facebook says they love it too.

“2002,” she says.

“Yep, that makes sense.”

“How did you know? Was it the puka shells?”

“It was one-hundred percent the puka shells,” I reply and we both giggle. 

A few moments later I lean over, "2002 was fifteen years ago.”

We stop giggling.

This is the first major, mainstream piece of art that reflects my high school experience back at me with enough time to have perspective. Almost half of my life has passed since I was the same age as Lady Bird in 2002 and that is kind of trippy. 

Am I really that old? In the grand scheme of things, no. But, Greta Gerwig making this movie, and then watching it in a theater packed with fellow early 30-somethings laughing at the same cultural references of having a cell phone “just for emergencies,” and earnestly loving Dave Matthews Band’s “Crash” certainly felt like a watershed moment. 

You know you’re getting older when you start to emotionally connect with the parents’ storylines more than the kids. In this case, with the film being set during my exact senior year, I felt them both equally. There’s a lot to unpack in being forced to reflect on the simultaneous freedom and frustration of being in this stage of life –– a youngish adult.

There are complicated feelings in being both thankful you never have to experience the overwhelming ennui of being a teen, but also such a deep sadness that you’ll never get to experience the ennui of being a teen again. 

Four years ago, my ten-year high school reunion came and went unceremoniously without my attendance. What a perfect and rare opportunity to dip back into that time. But, ultimately, it felt unnecessary and less exciting with Facebook; conversations less about discovering juicy gossip and more confirming what you already knew from status updates. Or maybe I didn’t go because growing up makes me sad in a way that it doesn’t for others. I’ve built an entire blog and online persona around this sadness for the better part of a decade.

What makes me so sad? Is it the passage of time? The smile lines? All the firsts so far behind me? I don’t know. It just does. Some people are always looking forward to the next thing –– and in many aspects of my life I move with such inertia. Those were the kids who wanted to grow up, something against which I always felt a rooted resistance. 

I was a different kind of kid and I guess that makes me a different kind of an adult.

I have a cell phone for more than just emergencies, I still can’t get to a movie on time, and I’ll go to the grave defending Dave Matthews Band. At least I gave away the puka shells.

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A Most Surreal Week

(Photo: Mandee Johnson)

A week ago, I woke up at 6am and pulled the covers up to my chin, as my stomach dropped deep into my hard little Airbnb bed at the thought of reciting the vows I’d spent a month writing in front of 130 of my closest friends and family. I also woke up to find the stress pimples around my mouth that had mysteriously erupted the night before had not totally gone away because why, oh why, would my hormonal acne give me a break on one of the most important days of my life? Hormonal acne is rude and relentless.

Today, I woke up to the most perfect skin I’ve had in almost two years because hormonal acne also has a snide sense of humor. Maybe lounging around a California resort with nothing to do but read, eat, drink, and spend money is the dermatological solution I’ve been seeking.

Honeymoons are weird, almost as surreal as the wedding itself, but neither is as mind-warping as when it’s all over when you have to go back to your real life. Everything is exactly how you left it, but also totally different. 

I moved through the day of the wedding like it wasn’t my own. Although I was in the moment, it felt like I was astral projecting myself into the preparations for someone else’s wedding. It wasn’t until I saw Jacob that my nerves settled, my thoughts grounded, and I felt more like everyone running around for me. 

The ketubah ceremony had to be performed in a tiny room that would later be flipped into a photo booth. It was hot with emotion and tears as our family and wedding party crammed into a half circle around Jacob and me, as we sat at a table. It was heavy enough without the mention of grandparents who would have been proud of this moment, but we had two of those. Everyone cried, releasing a pressure valve of sobs, unknowingly making the ceremony more relaxed.

As we lined up for the processional, I asked my new sister-in-law if she was nervous, and she said no. I told her I was. It was physically overwhelming to walk out and look at everyone you love, looking back at you. It knocked me back, involuntarily bringing my hands to my mouth in awe. Jacob said it looked like Weekend at Bernie's. I was Bernie.

I spend three sessions writing my vows, plus multiple hours of editing, and proofing. I read them out loud to my therapist. I cut my intro and wrote a new one. I read them out loud to a coworker, I cut that intro and wrote two more. I nitpicked every word. Jacob wrote most of his the night before. We both mentioned the fact that I like to open La Croix cans and let them go flat, but that it was ok because Jacob will drink the old ones so I can get a new carbonated can. Everyone cried and said the vows were their favorite part.

I told everyone they were crazy, and that I wasn’t like other brides and would eat the food at my wedding. We didn’t have a sit-down dinner, but one long appetizer bonanza because appetizers are always the best food at a wedding anyway. Why not just do more of that? I figured it would make food more accessible. While that was true, I hadn’t accounted for the sailor-level knots in which my stomach had seemed to contort itself. I ate a tostada cup and one mini Bavarian cream tart.

The day after the wedding on very little sleep, my best friend Marissa, Jacob, and I made a guy at the essential oils store explain all the essential oils to us. We only bought one thing and sat in the middle of the store for fifteen minutes on our phones not talking to one another. I bought a cashmere sweater even though it was over 90 degrees. Then, we all went to one of those really fancy movie theaters with the reclining chairs, full bar, and food service. Jacob made us watch the new Blade Runner. All three of us hated it, but at least we got a nap.

I made the reservation for the hotel in Ojai, making a note that it was our honeymoon. Because I made the arrangements, the staff called us Mr. and Mrs. Sundell, instead of Mr. and Mrs. Reed, for four days straight. We never corrected them. We kept commenting how funny it was snickering to each other. But, really, it meant being married and grown-up wasn’t real –– it was all a long-running bit we got to play at a surreal resort we would never be able to afford in real life. It meant I didn’t actually have to say the word “husband,” instead of “boyfriend.”

Back in our familiar routines a week later, everything looks like our lives –– just as we left them a week ago –– but, everything is and feels totally different. I woke up with perfect skin today, and that never happens.

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It’s A Lot Like Riding That Spin Bike

Oh hey, remember me? I used to blog a lot and in the past few months, I haven’t blogged at all. I kept saying it’s because I was busy planning my wedding, working full time, and…watching all of Game of Thrones.

But, now the wedding is over and I’m left facing my own accountability and expectations. As much as I’d like to say I’m back here typing away because I have so many adoring fans of my writing hungry for more *content* it’s just not true. It’s because I made a commitment to myself (and GoDaddy) to write, and having just gotten married, it’s a bit of an auspicious time for me and commitment. 

I believe everything is cyclical and creativity, writing, and self-expression are no different. Going to the gym, eating healthy, spending time with family, saving money and all the other elements of our lives that strive for a perfect streak are all seasonal. I’m not very good at math, but I do know that it’s not logical to be  💯 in all areas at once. Even in Southern California, it’s not quite summer all year long. 

The hardest part in all of this is being cool with it.

Energy is finite, and we only have so much to expel at any given time. It’s OK, and healthy, to spread the love to different parts of your life where it’s needed.

I had a very difficult year professionally. It required most of my energy and brain power to adapt and grow as a leader. I had to plan my wedding. I had to emotionally grapple with marriage and being on the precipice of a new chapter of my life. As someone who doesn’t like change, it was a lot to process what I was giving up and what I was gaining. My role in almost all areas of my life professionally and personally has changed. It’s a lot. 

With so much of myself tending to code red pain points, I was left with very little to spend creatively. Moreover, if everything else in my life had changed, what did it mean for my creative self?

 “Funks” are real, but so is having a life. If art imitates life, then it’s hard to make art without the latter. 

I guess I’ve been busy having a life. I think I feel ready to write about it again?  

Much in the way that my role at work and in my family has evolved, I think I’m ready to focus my energy back here, but it would be incorrect and obtuse to try and do it in the same way I had before.

My lack of desire to create or write over the past few months was worrisome to me. Maybe, it’s not me anymore, I wondered. Maybe I no longer like sharing that part of myself. They say that blogging is dead. Maybe it’s the medium, maybe it’s tone-deaf given the current social climate, maybe, maybe, maybe, blah, blah, blah.

It’s all of these things and none of the things, truly. And also, like I said, it’s me with the expectations, and no one else. I don’t know what the next move is, but I do know I can’t go anywhere, in life or creatively, without actually making the move. So, here’s a move. Maybe you’ve read this far, and maybe you haven’t. It doesn’t matter; it’s not for you.

Blogging may or may not be dead by industry standards, but I do know from over seven years of experience that it’s a lot like riding the spin bike I rode this morning for the first time in years, it’s not as bad or hard as you think it’s going to be, and it definitely gets easier the more you do it. 

I’m choosing to be cool with it.

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When People Don’t Want You, It Sucks

Rejection is just the pits. Like big avocado-sized pits. And the worst part is, rejection is a pack animal; it rarely travels solo.

I’m thinking a lot about rejection this week because I’ve been L-I-V-I-N-G it. 

A few nights ago, I dreamt about a boy I dated many years ago who broke things off with me via AIM while I cried at my desk that faced a major walkway in the office so everyone could watch me weep into my keyboard. Why are you showing up in my subconscious like nothing happened, fool?? I’m getting married in four months, and here is my brain trying to sabotage my “happy time” (even though you should know that being engaged is extremely stressful and unromantic in most ways). I woke up feeling weird, confused and rejected all over again.

Hey, brain…yes YOU up there. Did you not get the memo that we just turned 32, and shouldn’t be messing around with this shit anymore. BOI BAI. 

The next day I found out I didn’t get something that I had applied for recently even though I was over qualified and had spent hours working on proving my worth. It’s one thing to be rejected for something you didn’t want, or try for, but it’s a special sort of stab in the gut when you really put yourself out there. It can make you question every inch of being and existence. 

What are you even doing? What have you been working for? Are you even good at anything? DOES ANY OF THIS EVEN MATTER?

Leaning into the existential, there was a new moon this week and the sun is moving into Cancer, so hopefully, all this bullshit is over, but I believe in the rule of threes so I’m waiting for the universe to come and finish me off!

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How You Know You’ve Got A Good Dad

He yells at you for carrying a credit card balance but will spot you some cash when you really need it.

He takes you out on a date after you’ve had your heart broken, but you don’t realize it was a date until years later.

He leaves voicemails tellng you something is urgent, even it’s it’s not, just so you’ll call him back quicker.

He’s not perfect, he knows it, and he tells you all the time.

He doesn’t pretend that his life wasn’t super rad before you were born but knows your existence changed him for the better.

He lets you ignore him until it’s convenient for you.

He didn’t always know if he wanted or could be a dad but can’t imagine ever not being yours.

He takes your advice as often as he gives it back.

He calls you out on your bullshit but can also openly discuss what your therapist thinks he did wrong.

He learns how to text because he knows it means you’ll talk to him more.

He lets you scream at him over the phone like a teenager and won’t judge you.

He is a 70/30 split between embarrassing beyond words and cooler than you’ll ever be.

He knows the right amount of time to stay on a phone call.

He still has your headshot hanging in his office from when you decided to try being an actor in college.

He asks you which room in his house should be the baby’s room way before you have a baby.

He did enough drugs in the 60′s to preserve his body real good so he’ll stick around to bother you for a very, very long time.

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You're only as old as how you arrange your hipster party props. 🎉🎈

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31 Things I Learned From 31

Cooked vegetables are much less likely to give you a stomach ache than eating them raw.

People will listen to you more seriously when they find out you’re over 30.

The skin care industry is designed to drive you both insane and into poverty.

But also, Botox starts to make sense and you get less judgy about it.

Splurging on hotel rooms is usually always worth it.

Work traumas can haunt you just as deeply as romantic ones, and you will always be surprised when they bubble up again.

Your body isn’t a temple, it’s an underground cave full of secrets and confusing tunnels.

Succulents are hard to take care of, despite everyone’s Instagrams.

It doesn’t matter how much you have, it always feels like everyone else has more.

It’s OK to not love your job.

Having diamonds only makes you want more diamonds.

One gray hair can ruin your day.

Realizing you meet the criteria of a job description that requires 10+ years of experience will make you feel very, very old –– but also unreasonably confident and bossy.

Being engaged is very special, but it mostly feels like you’re hanging out in that heightened part of a rom-com where the couple has been fighting a lot and may or may not break up.

The Golden Girls really is very great.

Reading the newspaper is important.

Therapy is the best use of your health insurance. 

Probiotics work.

Life is too short to feel embarrassed about trying fashion trends.

Always get the bigger iPhone.

Planning a wedding is everything people say it is in both the best and worst ways.

It’s still baffling how some people get paid an insane amount of money to do, what seems like, nothing.

Candles are not worth it.

La La Land was just a movie.

The girls in The Babysitters Club STILL feel older than me, even though they are completely fictional 13 years olds.

It’s important to try to navigate yourself without using Google Maps sometimes to make sure your brain doesn’t turn to complete mush.

People who you think have it all are still struggling.

Group texts are SO annoying, but also how else are you supposed to maintain adult friendships in 2017?

There’s always going to be someone older than you to make you feel young and relevant.

Sisqo’s “Thong Song” was definitely not something I should have loved as much as I did at 14 years old.

It’s important to have an internist.

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Transgenerational Survival vs. The Dumpster

Ever since I told my therapist that my grandparents were Holocaust survivors, the concept of transgenerational trauma has become a recurring theme during our sessions –– mostly because I am fascinated by it. The phenomenon of children of traumatized parents being affected directly or indirectly by their parents’ post-traumatic symptoms has been described by some authors as secondary traumatisation. To include the third generation (hi, that’s me) as well, the term intergenerational transmission of trauma was introduced. The grandchildren of Holocaust survivors were overrepresented by 300% among the referrals to a child psychiatry clinic in comparison with their representation in the general population.

Now here’s the interesting bit: previous research assumed that the trauma transmission was mainly caused by parenting behaviors, however, it may have been also epigenetically transferred. AKA, the trauma was so damn bad it done got into the genetics and made us crazy.

Ok, so maybe this is the reason my mom put me in therapy when I was five years old. 🤔🤔🤔

Whether it’s from family stories, learned parenting behaviors, or even genetic mutations, my therapist explained that this has been attributed to fear based decision making and anxiety –– several generations away. 

Ok, I have fears. I definitely have anxiety. But, the thing that trumps (God, can we even still use this word anymore?) both of those things for me is my unrelenting survival mode. I rarely let myself wallow or hide in shitty situations for very long until I’m off my physical and/or mental ass. I bury my fear in productivity and I get high on problem-solving techniques. I plowed through a whole breakup by systematically redecorating my apartment until all that was left of my ex was the dark purple wall he insisted on painting. 

Faced with more than a few anxiety-inducing obstacles recently, I posed the theory that since I am a descendant of Holocaust SURVIVORS, could it be possible that my transgenerational trauma has manifested itself in the survivor part? My therapist thought about it and concurred. Sure, it is possible.

This is all a very long and philosophical way of me telling you about how I accidentally threw my keys into the dumpster earlier this week.

This was at the end of a very long and productive day, the end of which involved me taking out the trash I collected by cleaning out the fridge. Usually, I’m always conscious of holding my keys in the hand that isn't javelin throwing my garbage into the big ass dumpster behind my apartment building to avoid such things happening. But, I’ve been distracted lately –– like I said, life’s felt like an obstacle course recently. I’ve got a lot going on, and as a result, I didn’t remember. I hurled all my keys into the dumpster with the Vons paper bag of old food and two empty La Croix boxes.

PANIC. Sheer panic set in. I didn’t bring my phone down with me so I couldn’t use the flashlight to see where they had landed. I tried poking one of the La Croix boxes I had tossed and immediately heard my keys, all my keys, fall deeper into the dumpster. Like, I heard them hit the metal floor. There was no way I could reach them now. There was definitely a point where I could have, had I not blindly tried to touch things in the dumpster, but now...

Is this when I give up on my keys? I thought to myself. Should I just get all new keys in the morning? I had a pit in my stomach. My boyfriend was not home. I was on my own. Things were looking bleak. This was not the relaxing evening I had planned after my much-needed massage. I was about to give up when my survivalist instinct kicked in.

I WILL NOT BE BEAT BY THE DUMPSTER.

I ran back upstairs, never more grateful for not locking the door, and grabbed my phone. I made sure to grab my extra set of house keys and bolted back out to the dumpster. I climbed up on the platform where it sits, the sides and lip of the dumpster covered in unidentified stickiness now transferred to my hands. I turned on the flashlight and peered into the void. The garbage truck had come and emptied it earlier that day, so there wasn’t even a mountain of trash to offer assistance. I spotted my keys. I would have to get in –– like put my whole body inside the dumpster. Like, I needed to dumpster dive for my keys.

I ran back upstairs and changed my shirt into something I would mind burning, and put on my old hiking boots –– this was gonna be a big job and I needed all the traction I could get. I headed back out the door, armed and ready. 

Halfway down the stairs, I had a thought: what if I could unravel a wire hanger and bend it into a hook to fish out my keys? I ran back in the house and rifled through all the closets, cursing myself for being on top of my shit and cleaning out all the broken and shitty clothes hangers a couple months ago.

I literally found the only wire hanger we own in the back of the closet with one of Jacob’s dress shirts still pressed perfectly, sitting in a dry cleaner bag. Well, I tore that shit right off because I was on a mission. I took the white wire hanger and I flew down the stairs. 

It was pretty dark, but using the overhead light from the carport, I unwound the hanger to make it as long as possible, bending one end into a fish hook. Once again, I grabbed onto the stick edge of the dumpster and hoisted myself up onto the platform where it sits. I took my phone out of my back pocket and turned on the flashlight, shining it into the corner where I’d heard my keys fall. I instantly spotted my green carabiner and rainbow keys. 

Just then, a woman walked by. “I dropped my keys in there,” I told her, needing to justify why I was being shady with the trash to my building manager’s mother who doesn’t speak much English. She nodded, understanding. She didn’t leave, she stood to watch. 

I tried not to let my audience shake me as I lowered the hanger into the dumpster with one hand while using my phone as a light in the other – all balancing precariously on a wooden platform.

After a few tries, I hooked my target and lifted up my keys. “I DID IT!” I exclaimed to the woman. She smiled. “I’m glad I had someone witness this,” I told her. She kind of shook her head. WHATEVER.

I felt victorious, so proud that I did this thing all by myself, without having to put my body in a dumpster. I promptly doused my keys in Lysol and scrubbed my arms like a surgeon.

This was all to say...I’m a survivor. My ancestors didn’t go down without a fight, and genetically speaking neither will I. Also, I’m definitely keeping some wire hangers lying around in the future.

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Ominous Signs, Guardian Angels, and Bad Traffic

Do you believe in signs?

I’m a Gemini, and I definitely believe in that. Fickle, easily bored, skilled communicator and life of the party? It’s written in the stars baby!

Usually, beyond astrological and tarot woo-woo (the buck stops at crystals for me), I chalk most weird things up to coincidence. I suppose I have been known to look for signs if I’m at a real crossroads, or needing a justification for a decision I know I probably shouldn’t have made.  

But what about bad signs?

The other day, as I was driving to my dermatologist appointment, NPR gave me a traffic update about a fatal car accident on the 5 South at Colorado –– just one exit away from where I live. I pass that exit all the time, and that day a nine car pile up left many injured and one dead. I couldn’t shake the idea that someone had died in a spot so familiar to me. 

It made me think about this one time, years ago, I had finally reached the opening of a bottleneck on the 10 west due to onlookers trying to catch a peek at the bad accident on the east side of the highway. I was one of them, only the timing of it caused me to see a body with a white sheet over it. I can’t ever erase that image from my mind. As I whizzed past and glanced over at the gridlock, I thought about how all the cars behind the accident were at a complete standstill for over a mile, and ignorantly how pissed of they must have felt. I wondered if they would have been so agitated and full of road rage if they knew that their evening delay was because someone had died, and even more people –– person’s friends and family –– were about to experience the worst day of their lives. Maybe if they knew, they wouldn’t be so angry about having to sit in their cars for an extra half hour. 

I called my friend Santina to shake the feeling, but fifteen minutes later, I instinctually slowed my car at the sight of an ambulance and a police car. Holding up traffic I almost came to a stop when I looked out to the right to see a policeman blocking the side street, and three EMTs carrying, what I assume to be a body in a white sheet out of a building. Cars honked at me, and I sped up.

What a strange coincidence. 

I told Santina about what I had just seen, feeling even more shaken than when I called. She told me about a time in college when she saw, from afar, a boy hanging from the ceiling after he had committed suicide over a breakup. I audibly gasped and brought my hand to my mouth at the idea of her having to witness such a thing. Can you imagine being the girl that broke up with him, I asked. Then I told her about the time I lived in a high rise in Denver, and I came home to find everyone on their balconies because a man had jumped from his on the twelfth floor. By the time I got there, they had just cleared the body, but a red stain was left on the concrete and all of our memories. 

I went to my dermatologist appointment. Nothing bad happened, but I kept waiting for awful medical news or an unexpected phone call. 

On the drive home, after I’d gotten myself an iced latte and a fat piece of Nutella pound cake, I saw a lady on the sidewalk, crying to an EMT, clearly recovering from an accident. Still so weird, I thought.

And then, as I was almost home, and the pound cake was almost gone, the news came on with more information about the crash on the 5. It involved a few big rigs and the whole south side of the freeway was shut down. I thought about all the people headed south, totally stuck in gridlock, upset that their Tuesday plans were detailed. If only they knew that someone had died. I hope they wouldn’t be so upset about a little traffic.

Are any of these signs? Is something ominous going to happen to me? Was this Tuesday afternoon my raven? I’m a fair-weather believer in signs that don’t tell me about my personality, so I’ll say probably not.

But, then again, maybe it is a sign or a message from my guardian angel: don’t be so upset about the traffic. 

[terribletwenties]

Just Because Mercury Is In Retrograde Doesn’t Mean We Have to Be

Mercury is in retrograde, is it not?

Surely this week has proven nothing else to me. It’s been hard, exhaustive, frustrating, and all around just a giant scream into the void. 

Mercury Retrograde occurs when it is moving backward, into its shadow, and thus communication, scheduling, transportation, and judgment becomes cloudy or error prone.

Is Mercury to blame for roadblocks at work? The tears I cried at my desk today? The new shirt my cat ruined? The crippling self-doubt that I’m actually skilled at anything? The fear that I am all talk and no action? What about the two weird pimples at my jawline?

Is Mercury backing its ass up the reason for the bad Thai massage I got last night? It was really, really bad –– like I almost politely stopped him in the middle to say, “I’ve had enough” bad. For the aforementioned reasons and more, I needed to engage in an act of self-care, so I decided to book a massage at the place down the street that does a $40 cash deal. I was so excited for an hour of bliss where Mercury’s piece of shit attitude could just melt away as a small man made my legs do yoga stretches for me.

Only, it’s was so awful. It was as if he’d never touched a human body before and didn’t know what to do with the topography. I don’t think it’s a good sign if I describe my masseuse as, “bad with his hands.” At first, it was a lot of skin on skin friction as he aimless rubbed my skin with his skin, so I acted like a strong woman and spoke up, “you can go deeper,” I said from inside the face donut. He proceeded to, what I can only describe as, jerkily manhandle my tender back muscles. 

Throughout the entirety of the massage, my eyes were wide open, trying to discern what I was experiencing, what he thought was happening, and maybe convince myself that it felt relaxing. I tried not to, but I rehearsed what I was going to tell the guy at the front desk when he asked about the quality of my experience. I even resolved to only tip $5 instead of the $10 I had brought because it was such a strange experience.

But, after I put my clothes back on, skin buzzing with man-made electrical currents, I lost my nerve. When he asked how it was, I said OK, and I left the $10 bill.

I berated myself as I got into the car. Why couldn’t I just speak my mind? Why couldn’t I just be honest? IS THIS ALL BECAUSE I AM A WOMAN AND MUST REMAIN QUIET AND SMALL??

I thought a lot about this and realized it is not because I am a woman who wants to remain quiet and small. I didn’t say anything negative and still left the full tip, because that guy is just trying his best. I worked in the service industry for a really long time, and in that game, tips are everything. Maybe I felt compassion because he kept saying “sorry” every time he needed to tell me to move during our hour together, but mostly I think I knew that the terrible massage wasn’t due to laziness or malice –– the dude is just bad at giving massages. But you know what, he’s just trying his best to get by AND WHILE MERCURY IS IN RETROGRADE NO LESS.

Instead, I just asked for his name so I could make sure Tom and I never had to have an encounter again. Because you know what, we are all Tom. We all are all trying, and we all deserve to let a failure slide and still get a full tip –– especially during such an auspicious time. 

Apparently, there are two levels of Mercury's retrograde. One is the actions of others, which you can’t do shit about except being extra conscious to avoid error or misunderstanding. The second hits at the personal level when we are not centered because we’re being narcissistic assholes not acting from our heart and spirit. Instead, we are reacting from our whiney baby needs, or from our buttons being pushed. In that way, we act from our own shadow, just like Mercury. 

Basically, we let ourselves collapse inward so far that everything feels like an outside attack. It’s so much easier to blame someone else’s shadow than your own! 

Even though I really did have an objectively frustrating week, full of compounded challenges, I choose not to blame Mercury’s Retrograde and face my own shadows with introspection on how I can change the bad stuff. This is my way of telling myself, it’s ok I’m not very good at massages; I’m just trying my best, and I still deserve a $10 tip....let’s maybe try not to find ourselves in the same situation again.

[terribletwenties]

On Rituals, Locker Rooms, And Nakedness

Can we talk about the locker room? 

Until I joined the luxe extreme gym experience that is Equinox, a few months ago, I hadn’t used a locker room since high school. It’s fairly obvious that 75% of the reason people decide to fork over an exorbitant chunk of their paycheck for this gymnasium is because of the five-star hotel shower experience, complete with an unlimited flow of pricey Kiehl's products. It’s not because of their free weights; I can tell you that much.

For me, I signed on the dotted line when they showed me the coolers filled with cold eucalyptus soaked towels scattered around the gym and the class schedule that included a lot of yoga classes that were only an hour long. While impressed with the shower and locker situation, it wasn’t a huge draw for me. I couldn’t see myself using it, and quite frankly, I suppose I felt intimidated by the whole thing. It all just felt like a lot, from remembering which locker I had chosen to lugging all the high maintenance products and tools I use that give me the appearance of a low maintenance girl.

I understood why my boyfriend showered there frequently. He doesn’t have to shave in the shower (although, to be fair they do offer disposable razors and that goooood shaving cream), bring two kinds of brushes to make his hair look OKAY, or adhere to a strict ritualistic skin care regime to avoid one cystic pimple.

So, I started going for the cold towels, but still showered at home. I did this for a couple months, without ever touching a totally complimentary Kiehl’s product.

But one evening, after a hot yoga class, I decided to try it because 1.) I was curious 2.) If I’m gonna be bougie, I’m gonna go bougie all the way.

Packing a bag felt stressful, bringing me back to the first two years of my relationship when I had a perpetual overnight bag that I brought to and from my boyfriend’s apartment during the week. I felt nervous that I was inevitably going to forget ONE THING I needed (just like every vacation), and it was going to be awkward to try to do my “thing” out of a thin vertical box in the wall.

I know most people don’t have this level of anxiety about showering at their fancy fucking gym (IT’S JUST A SHOWER), but I did (still do), because it’s a very vulnerable thing to be in the gym locker room. 

It’s not the nakedness. I know you’re thinking I’m talking about the nakedness, which is A WHOLE subculture of people who relish being naked in locker rooms, it seems. I’m talking about the getting ready process.

Everyone has their own shower routine or getting ready for bed ritual. We often don’t think about it because we do it every single day. It’s basically the most mundane thing in your life, but if you really think about it (and I have) it’s this weird sacred series of behavior you’ve cultivated for yourself rooted in YEARS of mimicking our parents’ rituals, product preference, and observing peers and roommates.

Its consistency is something you grow to depend on, not realizing its importance to your sanity until it’s disrupted with an unexpected sleepover, a vacation, a post-workout shower, or even when your mind is distracted and you suddenly realize you forgot to wash your face after the hair conditioner, and now you have to do it after you’ve rinsed out the loofah and everything is out of order and feels STRANGE AS HELL.

“So this is your shower routine?” A particularly observant boy I had been dating asked me once, as I robotically moved from shampoo to conditioner to face wash. I think that was the first time I ever realized that it was, and that other peoples’ might be different than mine.

The vulnerability I’m talking about is sharing this very personal ritual with a room full of strangers. It’s trying to take the things you do in the privacy of your home, bring them to a public space, and put them on full display. You don’t even comprehend you have a ritual until you have to pack it in a bag, when you forget a step and it throws you way the hell off, or when a stranger watches you do it from across the room.

There’s something universally human about grooming. We all do it. It’s a constant. Sometimes, honest to god, I think about Trump’s bedtime routine. What does he do? What pajamas does he wear? How many products does he use? Does he apply them himself? What does his hair look like disheveled? What kind of toothpaste does he prefer? I guess it’s me trying to find humanity in a person who routinely acts so inhumane. 

My friend once opened up about the day her father died. She told me that after he passed, she went home and washed her face and got ready for bed just like she had every night before he died, like nothing had changed –– even though everything had changed. Even when bad things happen, and your world is turned upside down, you still have to get ready for bed. Maybe there’s even comfort in knowing that even when nothing makes sense, you can find it in something so mundane. It’s something to hold on to when the ground opens up and swallows you whole.

Ok, this is all to explain the mental baggage I’m bringing to the locker, and why it took me so long to go there.

I’ll be honest, I didn’t hate it, but it did make me feel very exposed, literally and figuratively. In the few times I’ve showered at the gym, I’ve locked myself out of my locker, taken up too much space, cut myself shaving and had to hold a piece of toilet paper to my leg with one hand and my towel closed with the other for fifteen minutes, accidentally brought hand lotion into the shower instead of face wash, and put the weird way I blow dry my bangs on display.

I’m still getting the hang of it. I’m trying to be able to be myself in this space like the women who confidently walk around the entire locker room completely naked, for seemingly no reason, or the woman who spent at least ten minutes slathering every inch of her breasts and armpits in lotion while she stared at herself in the mirror like she’d literally never seen her reflection before, or the woman who stood topless in front of the mirror with a blow dryer in each of her hands pointed at her head.

I don’t know if I’ll ever do any of these things at the gym because I never do them at home. Are these other women just making themselves at home, or are they just better at taking advantage of the five-star amenities?

[terribletwenties]

How To Use A Turtleneck To Hide From Reality And Other Fashion Trends to Watch in 2017

[terribletwenties]

I don't always cosplay as a style blogger, but when I do, @iamkateedwards is my Instagram husband. 💄👗👠

[terribletwenties]

Turning Back, Looking Forward, and Every New Year’s Resolution In Between

2016 was finally put to its forever bed last night, so we can all stop blaming a grouping of four numbers for all the terrible things that happened during the past twelve months (THANK GAWD). I won’t dwell on the negative elements because it’s truthfully well worn territory, and frankly, not really my style. 

The major highlights for me include starting and sending 27 issues of my newsletter, There’s a Grown Up In My Mirror. I would have liked to have sent 52, signifying that I met my goal of a weekly email, but you know what, life is busy and goals aren’t always attainable on the first try. I’m proud that I was able to do half that amount with enough trial and error that I can try again with more insight in 2017. Subscribe to find out more!

I was able to carve out a new marketing and communications department at my company that I will lead this year as the Director of Marketing, which sounds more boss lady and grown up than I feel on the inside. It was incredibly hard work to achieve this, performing two jobs at once for the last quarter of the year in order to make it happen. I was met with new professional challenges that taught me more about who I am as a manager and a leader than any year of my career ever has. I ended the year grateful that I am able to work at a place that instills trust and confidence in my visions and affords me the space to be able to execute on them.

I was published in Refinery29! This was a dream publication to see my byline once, let alone five times. The only reason this was possible was because of the support of another female writer friend who made a connection for me. It was a reminder that you should never be jealous of successful women (or people for that matter); but rather celebrate and admire them and they will help lift you too. Remember that there’s enough of everything to go around, so take a chill pill, spread positivity and always help a sister out. My article on picking out my own engagement ring went *mildly* viral, but the internet wanted to rip me apart for not wanting to use the word fiance. It’s ok, because I have a blog to poke holes in trolls. 

I started and hosted a monthly storytelling show called Tales From the Deep Dark Web, while also performing in several other live storytelling shows with incredible talent. I took several storytelling, writing and improv classes. I auditioned for and was placed on my second UCB Mess Hall improv team with a bunch of funny, amazing people. And, this past week, I hosted a nearly sold out storytelling show at UCB. An hour before the show I was freaking out, nervous, and wondering why I put myself through this. Why can’t I just be happy working and living my life withut trying to *be creative*? As  I walked onto stage looking out at a packed house, I remembered why. Hopefully, I can continue this show in 2017. 

One year ago today, I wrote this blog post about getting a crazy bloody nose that set me on a path to making it my year of health. I’m proud to say that I made good on this self promise and in 2016 I saw an ENT, dermatologist, dentist, internist, chiropractor, gynecologist, ophthalmologist, therapist and acupuncturist/herbalist. I got a physical, two blood panels, and started the process of trying to figure out how to try to balance my hormones naturally. After three years without stepping foot into the gym, I joined Equinox for an ungodly amount of money and actually go multiple times a week because I’m fucking paying for it.

I traveled so much this year (for me, anyway)! I went to New Orleans twice, Portland, New York twice, Cape Cod, the Sierra Mountains, and Las Vegas, even though traveling gives me and my boyfriend serious anxiety. I had to fly by myself twice, inspiring me to take a solo bachelorette party this year (taking suggestions now!)

This was my first full year without my best friend living in Los Angeles, after moving to New Orleans. I visited her twice last year, and she came to LA twice –– once as a surprise to celebrate my engagement. Even though we text every single day, and talk on the phone for hours like thirteen year old, it’s difficult. I miss wandering around the mall, watching bad Bravo shows, and generally having the company of a platonic better half, even though I am so happy she made an adventure out of her life and tried something new when the old thing (LA not me) wasn’t working.

Oh...and I got engaged! Jacob surprised me with a proposal that knocked my socks off. Now we have to plan a giant, expensive party to celebrate our decision to give forever a go. We’ve barely done any planning and are having a difficult time getting motivated or finding the time to do anything wedding related aside from finding the perfect venue...but I think our grace period is officially over. I’m not really feeling the whole “bride” thing. It’s really stressful making decisions, knowing you only get one day to get it right, and pleasing everyone in your family. And I know that’s all totally OK, but here’s hoping I at least start having some fun with it.

In 2017, I have some resolutions, but I’ll keep it to twenty. I’m about quality, not quantity this year!

Take my cats to the vet for check ups and get their teeth cleaned

Read 3 novels (this feels like such a sad number, but I’m trying to be realistic)

Blog at least once a week 

Throw less food away because it went bad in the fridge

Make time for family

Subscribe to major news outlets and donate money/time to organizations that promote equality and freedom

Spend less, save more (like, a lot more if I want a house)

Maintain the commitment to my health I showed in 2016

Send my newsletter weekly

Figure out what joint finances means 

Have fun planning my wedding

Finish and send my book proposal to lit agents

Write and perform a one person show

Go to the gym at least 3 times a week

Accept and forgive myself when I’m not creatively motivated

Be a meaningful mentor and leader at work

Create something at work that didn’t exist before

Oh man, should I start a podcast?

Book a fucking awesome honeymoon

Let things be messy for longer than I’d like

[terribletwenties]

New Year’s Eve, Big Whoop!

Oh, New Year’s Eve. We’re here again already?

Depending on whom you ask, this year has either excruciatingly slogged along or whizzed by in the blink of an eye. I think I’m in a camp that sits somewhere in between. The painful parts seemed to be an eternity, but when I think I about what I was doing last New Year’s Eve, I can’t believe it’s been a whole year. 

Isn’t that kind of how it always feels though?

Last year we went to our favorite restaurants because they were doing unlimited appetizers, and that sounded –– well –– appetizing. Then we came home, had a few people over, drank cocktails, played records, and watched the ball drop. The next day I got the worst bloody nose of my life that set me on a path to self-discovery with my health and well-being that lasted this entire year. 

Funny enough, in retrospect, all during 2015 my horoscope kept telling me to take care of my health. I told it to fuck off, feeling defensive that I hadn’t seen the inside of a gym for a couple years. I don’t need the gym your astrological asshole!

Well, turns out, I DID. It was in the stars the whole time.

This year, New Year’s just sort of snuck up on me and by the time people were asking about my plans to ring in 2017, I realized I had none. I also realized I honestly didn’t give a single. 

Every year I turn to my boyfriend and I’m like, “Hey, why didn’t we go away for New Years like all these other smart people in Palm Springs and Hawaii? We should totally plan a trip next year.” We agree to this plan, and somehow ALWAYS find ourselves without plans wishing we were on an island beach or in a cabin in the mountains. How do we always end up here (here being toally blase about a big holiday?

It’s not just 2016 –– which I get was terrible. We’re all sorry to see it go. I can’t wait for the year to be over and to not have it listen to people talk about how they want it to be over. TIME IS JUST A CONSTRUCT PEOPLE. There are no years; it’s just a bunch of solar and lunar cycles.

OK anyway, that’s all to say this happens every year, not just the bummer years that steal all our hearts, personal freedoms and beloved entertainers. I guess we just don’t care enough?

I think beyond looking for a fancy party, the most important thing I am over is caring about whether or not I’m at a fancy party. And believe me, I used to really care a lot. I wanted to have some place cool to go with the right people so I could take a cool photo in a cool outfit where no one would notice my glittery nails but me and so I could feel like I did New Year’s eve “right.”

I have lost the capacity for FOMO when it comes to this holiday. Trust me, I’ve been watching people ring in the new year on Instagram from all over the world all day and I’m totally non-plussed. I’m happy for everyone’s good time, but I really don’t care if I get an invite to the bar thing someone threw together, or if don’t have a reason to get dressed up.

“Remember how fun New Year’s was five years ago?” I asked my boyfriend this morning. I was waxing nostalgic in my brain over our first NYE together, which was only a couple weeks into dating. We got dressed up, went to a really fun party, and aside from alcohol, we were so freaking high on each other. But, I think you don’t get that many magical movie midnights in your lifetime. 

We both ran into our neighbor (who is also a friend) later in the day and like robots, we asked him what his plans were this evening because for the last two weeks that’s a requisite question to ask people right after “How are you?”

“I’m debating between two house parties, neither of which I really want to go to very much. Are you guys in the same boat?”

We nodded. HOW SAD!!

“I feel like nothing is as fun anymore,” my boyfriend told me today. He was being a little melodramatic, but I totally knew what he was talking about. The cool factor of things like New Year’s Eve has just really worn off. 

Not to be a total butt baby party pooper, but New Year’s is way overrated. Maybe it’s because I stay up until midnight basically every night and that hasn’t been very special for like 15 years. Maybe it’s because I don’t really like wearing sequins (they catch on EVERYTHING). Maybe it’s because I don’t like holidays where you’re supposed to have a specific kind of good time. Maybe it’s because it seems like a waste of money. Maybe it’s because it’s cold and raining tonight. Maybe it’s because (GULP) I’m just passed the point where it’s supposed to be a big deal. Champagne? Late bedtimes? Pfft. All year round, baby. The novelty is goooooone.

Ok, that said, I need to go shower because we can’t decide between house parties, so we’ll probably end up at both and it will be chill and great and with awesome people (right or not). No pressure. No glitter. No fucks to give. Until 365 days from today when I say, how the hell has it been a year since the last New Year’s?