What They Don't tell You

What they don’t tell you about the whole “try, try again” adage is that sometimes trying again feels like a surefire way to fail again. Sometimes your brain gets so attached to its history of failure that it sees failing as inevitable, maybe even as success.

What they don’t tell you about accepting failure and moving on is that the failure sometimes becomes part of your very fabric. Sometimes the fabric of failure starts to feel like whole cloth. Sometimes that shirt gets so comfortable that you can hardly tell it from your own skin.

What they don’t tell you about falling in love is that sometimes the falling is so terrifying that you’ll grab onto anything to break your fall. Sometimes falling feels like flying until you look down and see the ground rushing up toward you, covered in the broken pieces of last year’s fall.

What they don’t tell you about getting older is that sometimes you forget to act your age and your heart reminds you there’s still a little child inside who’s scared and lonely and bratty and hopeful. Sometimes when you think you’re figuring it all out, the math doesn’t quite work out, you have too much left over and you have to start again, but don’t forget to show your work.

What they don’t tell you about starting over is that sometimes you’re going to make that same mistake again even though it looks like someone new, even though you look like someone new. Sometimes you have to look past the reminders and the blinders and trust that something new is under there, suffocating in that hair shirt, waiting to surprise you.

What they don’t tell you about trust is that sometimes you have to trust someone else to hold your pain so that you can look at it from a little further away and recognize that it’s not really bigger than you, that it was just a trick of the light, that it’s really just a small stone rubbed soft by your worrying hands. Sometimes you can trust and be scared and touch that soft worried spot and slip off that hair shirt and let that stone weigh it down to the bottom of a cold lazy river and miss its scratchy weight and long to join it under the waves and wave goodbye to it and wait to turn away while your goosebumped skin shivers and wish it well and miss it terribly, all at the same time.

What they don’t tell you about life could just about fill this room. And sometimes this room is exactly where I need to be.

Creature Comfort

For the third time, the wind turned my umbrella wrong side out. Nearly frozen raindrops lashed at my hair while I pivoted into the blast to get the thing right way round again. Despite my earmuffs, gloves and warm boots, a chill was settling into my bones.

It was only 6:30 on New Year’s Eve, and already I was done being outdoors. Turns out, the dazzling promise of the Big City could not change who I am at heart: an introvert who loves her creature comforts.

My considerably younger companion concurred, and we made our way through the soggy streets to a bus that would carry us back to within blocks of warm, cozy shelter.

My only New Year’s Eve triumph was the fact that I managed to remain awake until I could hear the faint boom of fireworks at midnight while my youthful companion snoozed intermittently. I stepped out onto the icy balcony to catch a glimpse of rosy blooms above the dark silhouette of large buildings. A neighbor wished me a happy new year as he tended to his grill, the sounds of laughter and conversation wafting out to mix with savory smoke. The rain had stopped.

As I went back inside, the comparative silence rang out and my chilly toes dug into warm carpet. I lingered in the moment and took stock of my NYE track record.

Many a December 31 I spent in the toasty company of close friends around a blazing hearth, playing board games and laughing until my sides hurt. A handful passed quietly, with myself tucked into bed at a reasonable hour long before balls dropped or resolutions rang out. A few stand out as riotous fetes of dancing and cheering, but those are definitely rare.

Last year was like that, with Stacy at a friend’s house party. At midnight, a bunch of us threw on coats and stumbled to the backyard to watch hipsters shoot off bottle rockets while we howled at the moon and wielded magnums of champagne. Afterward, we danced en masse in the kitchen to thumping beats until our legs ached and our ears buzzed.

When I was little, my brother, Dan, and I used to plan elaborate NYE parties in our basement, hanging paper streamers and crafting a disco ball from tin foil – even going so far as to print little invitations to our parents and siblings on lined paper with crayon drawings of Father Time and Baby New Year. Our parents tolerated this, but I don’t think any other family members came downstairs to inspect our decorations. I’m not even sure I was allowed to stay up until midnight. But I do remember having to clean up all the festive detritus the next day, though thankfully this was before I knew what a hangover was.

I’m not terribly disappointed with how my New Year’s Eve worked out this year. I got to travel a little and reconnect with an old friend for a while. What I noticed was how that friendship has changed over the years. There has always been some distance between us, for one reason or another, but we have a real connection that makes it easy for me to feel at home after weeks, months or even years of separation.

Sometimes we connect in a bolt of lightning with feverish intensity. Sometimes we sit quietly together and let the comfortable silence rest upon our laps like a blanket. Often, we engage in spirited arguments about random subjects, like whether the world is more peaceful on the whole now than it was 50 or 100 years ago. But we always try something new – a restaurant, a dish, a play – and we always laugh, even if it’s in the wake of tears.

This is the year in which I will turn 50. I have no wisdom bombs to drop, nor do I have a lament of lost youth or opportunities missed. I don’t even have a bucket list of aspirations to check off as I defy the over-the-hill stereotype.

What I have is 50 examples of times I gave various degrees of effort with varying degrees of enjoyment and success, both in celebrating and cherishing this little life of mine. Sometimes the choices I make garner that wind-blown umbrella effect, with everything topsy-turvy and metaphoric cold rain slapping my head. Sometimes I find myself in a groove like last year’s party with Stacy, feeling a steady beat and moving in a pleasant rhythm.

Most often, my years consist of long stretches of nothing remarkable punctuated by those lightning bolts of feverish intensity. Just when I think I’ve rolled into a deep rut, a new face appears or a new challenge arises, and I find a fresh way of sidestepping boredom and surrendering to the terrifying unknown, hopefully emerging with something to show for it, be it a battle scar or a victory notch. And what’s the difference, anyway?

So here I am, on the brink of half a century, claiming it doesn’t bother me. Judge me if you must for succumbing to those creature comforts, but a soft couch, a warm blanket and the gentle glow of electronic devices were all the fireworks I needed this year. I expect periods of boredom and frustration this year, perhaps with moments of magic in between. I’ll take it all with gratitude and hope I can tell when to dance and when to go to bed early.