I’m eating breakfast right now. I was starting the first paragraph of this post when I spilled my entire bowl of oatmeal on my left thigh (though luckily saving most of it with my shirt). The oatmeal is cold because I put frozen fruit in it- not really the warm treat I wished for myself for breakfast on this -10 degree December morning (thank God for microwaves). I have a cold sore in my nose that has been driving me insane for days, and my living room before me, upon brief surveil, is a chaotic mess of laundry and moving boxes. And yet I feel fairly jovial, despite the mess and the cold oatmeal still stuck to my pajamas and the vague threat of total chaos surrounding me. I can’t think of a better metaphor for this past year.
My 2016 was mostly about rehashing old thoughts, feelings, behaviors, and ideas. I was in therapy for an eating disorder I had been ignoring for over a decade, and was, as a result, rehashing much of my emotional development in the new lens of someone with an undisclosed problem. If you have never re-processed all of your thoughts and feelings from adolescence as an adult, I would not recommend it unless you like crying on your lunch break and sending really weird and long emails to your friends.
The early part of 2017 felt very similar to 2016’s confusing emotional journey: I applied to school for genetic counseling and didn’t get in. Again. I found myself working at a comfortable state agency in a job I was overqualified for and not invested in. Again. I subsequently left that job to be a summer camp counselor with no plans for what I would do next. Again. Each time I repeated one of these unpleasant events I felt a little closer to understanding why Bill Murray was so desperate to drive into a wall just to get out of his nightmare experience of Punxsutawney.
Maybe in a different time I would have continued to do the same things: re-apply to grad school again, get a different state agency job, etc. But this is not a normal time.
I would like to get one thing straight: it is not good that Donald Trump is president. I will say that his presidency has helped me to get my shit in line this year. I was a lost 26-year-old wandering around in her own memories and feeling sorry for herself before 2017. Fighting against the Trump administration reminded me that I have skills, I have power, and I have people. One of the first things I did this year was to get on a plane to go to DC to stand with millions of people I didn’t know (and a handful of really good friends) and yell about how science is real and women deserve better. I lost sleep and productive time every time Congress tried to repeal the Affordable Care Act (four times). I entered all my congresspeople’s phone numbers in my phone. I sent cards and faxes and left messages– I even went door to door once for a Minneapolis mayoral candidate (though I let J do all the talking; I just taped envelopes to doors). I talked to strangers who were worried about immigration and health insurance and whether or not they would continue to have work. I lifted weights to deal with my anger at the constant stream of shit coming out of the news (and got kinda ripped). I decided that I needed to do something that was more hands-on than sitting behind a desk, so I left. I became a teacher and taught 8-year-olds about injustice (and also math). In just four days I’m moving across the midwest to learn everything I can about social welfare so I can hopefully someday have a job where I’m using my power to make people’s lives better. Maybe I would have done a few of these things in the non-Trump time, but I doubt it. I’m not glad that Donald Trump is president, but I’m making the most of his (hopefully short) time in office.
I felt like an adult most of the time this year. It’s probably just because I’m closer to 30, but being forced to stand up for the rights I had previously taken for granted probably helped. I didn’t spend as much money on stupid shit this year. In fact, for most of the year I owned only two pairs of pants. I was maybe hungover twice, and for the most part (aside from teaching), I got 8 hours of sleep a night. I spent money on boring things like paying off debt and buying vegetables and new sheets. I went to four different states and three different countries and only bought magnets and postcards. I went to therapy every week for the first seven months of the year and did well enough at not eating disorderedly that I got to stop. I also lost weight, which I don’t feel like I should think about (and only know because a nurse messed up), but I know it’s because I was healthier and not thinking about how I looked as much. Four of my oldest and best friends got married this year. My parents are now both in their 60s. Several people I know have bought houses, and a few have had babies. Other people have lost parents and grandparents and friends. My friends have smile lines and furrowed brows and eye crinkles and grey hairs. They wear sensible shoes and know things about insurance and investing. These are all normal life things that always felt like they happened to other people before now; it is bittersweet to know that life can happen to me, too.
I woke up this morning to write this post because I was sad about a lot of things changing or coming to an end this year. That’s the double-edged sword part about not living in Groundhog Day anymore, I guess. For the past 26 years I’ve more-or-less known what kinds of things I could expect myself to be doing, and with whom I’d be doing them, at any given time. It was making me feel trapped and stagnant before, but now I feel sad knowing that parts of that life might never be the same. Will I go to camp? How often will I be able to visit Minnesota? Who will I see around Thanksgiving? Where will I be on my birthday? Which friends will I be able to stay in touch with? Which milestones will I miss out on because I live somewhere else? The beauty and great sorrow of not being able to see into the future is that I can’t know the answers to those things now, all I can do is make the best decisions I can every day and hope it works out for the best. So, here’s to 2018: I’m jumping in feet first, whether I’m ready or not.
This post is dedicated to John Snyder and Ira Weinberg, both excellent men who valued learning, creativity, and asking people interesting questions. Their son and grandson (respectively) are two of the most important people in my life and I am grateful for all they taught their offspring and me.
weary traveler 