JT, Where Art Thou?

I’m 25. I would say I’m proud of my age – but let’s get real. There’s nothing to be “proud” of unless you want to count the fact that I made it a quarter-century without losing any fingers, toes, or (too many) brain cells. 25 is a number, not a bragging right. And, 25 is NOTHING what I thought it would be.

If you asked me at 14 what I thought my life would be like in my mid-twenties, I can assure you NONE of my answers included “furiously typing a blog post while half-assedly monitoring an open book/open note exam for a 50-year-old professor who’s too busy partying in Havasu to be here right now.” (Ps. Where were these exams when I was in college? Pps. Do I even need to be here? Ppps. Why was “college” so many years ago? Pppps. Tears.)

I always thought that at 25, I would be estatically married to a (bleached fro-ed) JT look-a-like with 2.5 kids, a pool, 3 cars, and 4 dogs. Oh and I’d also be a wildly successful Marketing exec, because why wouldn’t I have time for a budding career AND a growing family??? I imagined that I’d be wise, learned, and just an all-around veteran of the game; not so silently pointing and laughing at those younger than me while basking in the joy of my perfect life in Barbie’s Malibu dream house.

Guess what? Not anywhere close to marriage, a mortgage, or a baby. But gimme those dogs pleaseandthankyou. Not an executive-level anything, unless you count my elite status as a sarcastic bitch-bucket. I’m not even working in a career remotely dependent on my Bachelor’s degree. Plus, I’m 89% certain that I know less about the world at 25 than I did at age 8. Benjamin Button, I think I am your sister. Like my formerly-imagined counterpoint, however, I do stay home on the weekends. Although, I have none of the 2.5 kids to blame it on. What’s UP 25! Can I be your postergirl?

I think that just goes to show me what expectations and perceptions can do to a person. Aka try and completely fuck me over. That whole quote about “What really messes us up in life is the picture in our head of how it’s supposed to be”..?? Yeah, preach on, sister. I could let my current situation get me down. I could. Shit, some days I do. This is not how I imagined life going. But, I’d honestly be lying if I told you I’m sad. I love that the most exciting part of my day often consists of frenching my dog on the mouth (most likely 8.7 minutes after he got done frenching his own butthole). I’m enjoying my “career” .. even if I insist on using quotation marks when I call it that and plan on leaving this particular gig in the next 6 months. I like that on days I want to get real real crazy, I put one of my many grey-on-grey-on-grey leisure suit combos and drive up to one of my best friend’s houses to play “Can I Put This In My Mouth” with her 7-month-old while drinking wine and watching reality TV. Maybe I’m just easy to please? If so, maybe I’m better off for it.

I will tell you that these 25 years (well, really just mainly the last 5-7) have taught me patience. And humility. And forgiveness. And grace. And faith in the “system.” And that a good sense of humor might not win you the battle, but will ultimately win you the war. They taught me to cut myself some slack. To carpe the fucking diem. Or, on the opposite hand, to just lay in bed until 2pm because WHY NOT and BECAUSE YOU CAN. That stress is useless, although seemingly unavoidable. That food is good and wine is better. And, definitely most importantly, it taught me that if you want to say a repeated “screw you” to age-old English grammar rules that have been shoved down your throat since 1st grade, start a blog… because no one gives an eighth of a shit if you choose to start 38 sentences with “And.”

I Used To Write

Three years ago, I went through this blogging phase. Because blogging was the new Facebook. Then Twitter was the new blogging. Vine is the new Twitter. Heinous floral print is the new black. I can’t keep up. Uncle.

I swore I’d never go back. Told myself that my 233 (but who’s counting) Twitter followers and my 160 character limit would suffice. Psh. As if 160 characters would ever be enough for this long-winded, long-legged Asian. There’s a special place in hell for the overly wordy and I obviously already have my room reserved.

Plus, anyone who knows me knows that emotional diarrhea (i.e. venting) is my super power. It’s a necessary evil in my mind and I think we all need to raise the roof to my numerous girlfriends who have to put up with my babbles. For their sake, I have returned to the blog. Words, sentences, complete thoughts, incomplete thoughts, bad grammar, the more-than-occassional cuss word … welcome to my therapy. Cheaper and less time-consuming than a three-hour-long psychiatry session spent dissecting a tweet because I need to take a crash course in Letting Shit Go 101. You’re welcome.

What do I even write about? I used to speak about baseball and my ex. And by “used to,” of course I’m referring to my past blogging life, as anyone I know can attest to the fact that both of the aforementioned subjects are still appearing nightly on my news. I’m sorry times about a bajillionmillion. You poor things.

LAB (Life After Baseball) basically consists of food, my dog, wine, work, sleep, and more food. Rinse and repeat as necessary. Come to think of it, LBMLAB (Life Before My Life After Baseball) pretty much consisted of the same thing, thanks to the distance slash my independence. So, in theory, there shouldn’t be much to write about. Correction: there should be NOTHING to write about. And yet, here we both are.

I supposed I could talk about my dog. But Junior’s already the only thing I speak of to anyone. I could tell you about my recent entrance (and long-overdue acceptance of said entrance) into the (barf, puke, stab) mid-to-late twenties dating world. I’m sure I will. It’s complete butt-fuckery out here, folks. I could write about my eternal quest for the ideal beach body. But when am I ever going to find the self-discipline/start hating carbs enough to finally achieve a Beyonce lower body, Misty May abs, Sofia Vergara chest, Michelle Obama arms, and yeah, I think I’ll go back to Queen B for her face, hair, and overall swag, to top things off. Cue: hitting head against wall.

I think it’s about time that I just accept the fact that I’m a hot mess, my blog will undoubtedly be one as well, and we’re all just in for a probably inanely boring ride. You have been warned. So..until next time, homegirls…. (And if my blogging history taught us anything, it’s that “next time” probably means tonight, and then tomorrow, and then not again for another month, and then three times in one day, and then maybe not again until 2016. Maybe I’ll have more substantial things to say then? Probably not. Le sigh.)