Author’s Note: This post has ample use of the F-word and if that offends your sensibilities, it’s best to skip this in its entirety. Here’s the obscenity free tl;dr. Wait. No. There is too much.
I’m turning 40 in 5 days.
I’m also in the midst of a mid-life crisis. I think. I mean, I can’t really think of what else to call it.
The problem is, when people hear me call it a mid-life crisis, they usually think I’m having problems turning 40 and getting older. They try to comfort me, saying that my 40s will be more awesome than my 30s and that my 30s were way more awesome than my 20s. That I will love being 40 and up.
Let me be clear.
I have never had a problem with aging. It’s either grow older or die young. I’ll choose the growing older, thanks.
No. I’m not upset about aging.
Incoherent with rage.
But not at the ceaseless passing of time. What’s the point in inveighing against the inevitable?
I am so very angry at myself.
Because first and foremost, why did I squander my most highly fuckable years on a repressed religious conservatism?
Yes, I really am that shallow.Why did I waste four decades of my life cowering in fear? Why did I consistently choose that which was expedient over that which required effort in the face of uncertainty?
I rarely talk about sex in a public forum, but this is a very key part of my fury.
Look, I’m not saying I would have liked to fuck through the entire active list of the Asian-interest fraternities, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t have liked to do that.
Have I said too much?
My close friends say they can always tell when I’m closer to drunk than sober when I start talking about sex but I’m not drunk. I have zero alcohol in my system – a damn shame – but my blood is coursing with caffeine and I personally think I’m a bit meaner with this particular drug than the mellower, buzzed me.
I also don’t know what it says about me that I feel like being in a constant state of inebriation would be an incredible improvement upon my life – but I suppose that’s why I don’t tend to drink alcohol. The temptation to drown myself would be too great.
If I’m honest, I don’t really want to fuck an entire fraternity.
The problem with fucking college aged boys is they have no idea what to do with a woman’s body. And the problem with being a young woman fucking college aged boys is that you don’t know what you want for your body either.
Heh. I just remembered that Hapa Papa used to be the president of his fraternity. I guess I got to fuck a frat boy after all.
This post has taken somewhat of a left turn. Let me attempt to right the course.
It’s not about the sex or its lack thereof.
I rue my profligacy. My prodigal youth.
Here is the crux of it.
Why did I waste my young adulthood – the alleged prime of my life? I had nothing to lose with few to no responsibilities. I was young, talented, smart, and – most enviably – free.
Why did I waste four decades of my life cowering in fear? Why did I consistently choose that which was expedient over that which required effort in the face of uncertainty?
I frittered it all away, focusing on my fears. Never allowing myself to want what I wanted. I shied away from failing on the way to competency.
I believed one of the greatest lies my father ever perpetrated when he told me to treat with contempt the people who worked hard because they didn’t have the innate talent to be immediately excellent.
I swallowed that lie hook, line, and sinker because I was afraid and never learned how to fail and fail big and then bounce back.I also don't know what it says about me that I feel like being in a constant state of inebriation would be an incredible improvement upon my life - but I suppose that's why I don't tend to drink alcohol. The temptation to drown myself would be too great.
And now, here I am on the cusp of 40, finally admitting to myself what I want and I am terrified.
I despair that no matter which way I turn, no matter how many times I push through fear, no matter how many times I look it in the eye and tell it to fuck off and die, it always returns. The shape and manifestation slightly changed, but the essence remains the same.
My grievances are not original and still, I am near bursting.
I am angry that I have crumpled and self-sabotaged a year that started off with such promise. I lament that for every two steps I take forward, I fall back one willingly.
I am a coward.
I say this and there is a nagging suspicion that perhaps all my potential was the real lie. That perhaps I am delusional and what I shout to myself are falsehoods are actually truth.
I am angry that I’ve misplaced my swag or worse – I never had it.
I am bereft.
I do not know what to do with myself.I despair that no matter which way I turn, no matter how many times I push through fear, no matter how many times I look it in the eye and tell it to fuck off and die, it always returns. The shape and manifestation slightly changed, but the essence remains the same.
I do not wish to lay down and die. To allow the smallness of my life to suffocate me. To feel smothered by my children and husband. To see my daily flotsam as a waste.
I want to come out swinging but my body rebels; clumsy.
And so my hope gutters in and out, fragile and tenacious.
We are each a paradox.