Oh, 25 ...
Just a mere seven years ago, you were the golden age. I was to already be a few years into my career, penning provoking pieces at my favorite magazine and making big girl coin. Accompanied by my two degrees, a bomb ass apartment, maybe a dog or three, I'd be traveling from city to city while cultivating the biggest moves in the print industry ... yeah, that was it, man. The dreams were finally going to come into fruition. Life was supposed to have solved all its bullshit by now. I was finally going to be in a stable, solid, sane place.
You've gotta love those romanticized teenage expectations.
An entire month has passed since I celebrated my 25th year of existence and now, more than ever, am I struggling with the space I'm in.
It all started with my birthday dinner at Copper Canyon. As the heavy-handed bartender topped off my margarita, she asked me what the occasion was. "I just turned 25," I said as I took another drawn out sip (read: gulp). I'm sure my demeanor was friendly but my subconscious was giving true Daria Morgendorffer tease. Instantly, my bartender smiled. It was almost as if shorty knew what was going through my muddled head. Deep dimples highlighting her chocolate features, she became a millennial Aristotle. "25's such a weird age, you know? You're not quite young but you're not quite old. People want you to be an adult by you're still dealing with elementary stuff. I get it."
And there I was, read for filth by my beautiful bartender.
25 years. 25 years of blood, sweat, tears, and "GIRL ...". 25 years of exuberant highs, disrespectful lows, phases of extreme darkness and incandescent light. A quarter century of life for the kid. The question of whether I've been living or merely alive is debatable.
I wouldn't call it a quarter life crisis but for the last 30 days, the funky haze I've been under is just gross. Red flags are popping up everywhere. It's getting dangerous. I'm no stranger to mental instability. I let it fester too long and it might just kill me. So, after an emotional a-ha moment last night, I'm ready to prepare the antidote to the madness I'm experiencing.
A manifesto of sorts.
In the grand spirit of a "new year resolution", I've created some ... well ... literal new year resolutions without the pressure. 25 can still be my idealistic year. However, it'll be a more healthy effort of becoming one with my spirit and my goals instead of idolizing some false timeline of adulting "the right way".
Prioritize: Devoting a full 48 hours per week to intensive self-care (meditation, tangible purges, detoxes)
Minimize: Letting your responsibilities mount up to the point of putting yourself second
Prioritize: Putting the pen to paper (or manicured fingers to keyboard) to write an hour a day
Minimize: Comparing yourself to your peers in a disavowing manner
Prioritize: Networking and propelling Bee to the masses
Minimize: Going anywhere without your business cards
Love & Sex
Prioritize: Holding your womanhood in the palm of your hands, whether that be romantically or carnally
Minimize: Prolonging the grieving process of potential, whether it be lost loves or dick appointments
Prioritize: Building a comfortable nest egg for yourself, one Mint notification at a time
Minimize: Eating out and Ubering everywhere because girl ...
Prioritize: Taking up space healthily and unabashedly
Minimize: Harming your body with toxic thoughts, actions, and experiences
You got it, ma. I believe in you.