My birthday is in nine days, yet I can’t summon a story about the last year of my life. I guess this is aging. One day bleeds into another without a clear heroine’s arc. As someone who strives to live artfully, I don’t love it. But, such is life.
Things did happen this year, though. Through the power of Formula 1 and Lewis Hamilton, my mother and I have a good relationship (if god is real, he is a 5’7 race car driver with a penchant for drama, because that’s as miraculous as acts get). I inherited some money, paid down some debt. Embarked on the AP Biochemistry course that is learning makeup. Dropped the last of my COVID 20 15. Reveled in evenings at a small neighborhood wine bar with a band of colorful characters I’ve missed since the owner retired and closed his doors back in May. I took salsa lessons — maybe more to come on that later. I spent a week on Martha’s Vineyard with my sister-in-law — I owe you photos. Reacquainted myself with my inner villain, waged some perfectly harmless psychological warfare, and came out the victor (I swear, they had it coming). I outgrew my job just in time to step into a vacated role at my company, taking my support professional talents to the C-Suite.
I played with some real woo-woo shit. Like, pulled tarot cards for my birthday and watched them play out in real time over the following 12 months. Aligned with how my body has always wanted to move through the world; from my gut, fucking around and finding out. Burned a list of shit I wanted to be rid of under a full moon and have been mildly unmoored ever since. That feeling that used to fuel me… Was it confidence or pride? Only time will tell.
My life — the reality of it, I mean — is not gray. Not even a little. The pesky narrator in my head is just largely unimpressed, and I have to wonder if I care to impress it any more.
My jaunt to the Vineyard
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