|STARING 30 IN THE FACE. IT'S ALL ABOUT CONFRONTATION, FOLKS. AND AVOIDING THE SPRAY TAN.|
ok, this is morbid and untrue. kind of.
Turning 30. You never really think it's gonna happen to you. Until it does.
My birthday is on December 23rd (I call it my Birthmas). It's a big one. I'm trying to stay positive about it, but turning 30 kind of feels like I'm about to get a disease or something. I feel like I have no excuses to act like a child and throw cherry tomatoes at peoples butts and/or heads anymore. I can also no longer try and find a way to put a boiled egg underneath seated people's butts to make them think they've defied all odds and laid an egg. Will I still be able to head bang violently when I turn 30 or will I have to downgrade to doing the polka or whatever? I did learn a lot of lessons in my 20's - and believe it or not, I actually remember them. This past decade has been filled with highs and lows including but not limited to: intensely awkward situations, shitty jobs, 3 big moves, a shit ton of anxiety and some happy times. At the risk of sounding like cheezewiz, I feel like I've really gotten to know myself through these temperamental years. In fact, as I worked on this Toe Pick post I found myself cringing at the corniness of some of my anecdotes. But maybe not using the word shart in every bullet point is a sign of maturity? Who knows. All I know is there is no way to avoid being just a little corny when it comes to putting down life lessons on paper. Don't believe me? You try it. So just
Haribo bear with me. I never thought I'd say (er… write) this but I am actually welcoming my 30's with open arms. Because man, my twenties were harder than Pee Wee Herman in an adult movie theatre. Surviving the perils of my 20's has been my biggest accomplishment thus far. Without further ado, I bring you the top 30 lessons & (for lack of a better word) things I've learned about myself over the last trifecta of decades. The first one is long. Don't worry, they're not all this long. (That's what she said.)
1. I've conquered my drunk texting tendencies.
It was a Saturday night after a sorority/fraternity swap. I was a freshman at Ole Miss. Texting had not yet been invented. It was on this fateful, hazy night when I committed my first drunk “messaging” infraction. I had made out with Ole Miss's back-up quarterback the night prior to said infraction. My vulnerable roommate had made out with Eli Manning (can anyone say tag team!?) It was one of those nights that me and my former roommate will remember vividly, like for the rest of our lives. Eli and the back up QB will not, most likely. Whatever. I didn't get the Back Up QB's (moving forward: BUQB) digits so my friends and I did some detective work. The ole miss edu e-mail address was structured as so: first initial + middle initial + first 6 letters of last name. (Incidentally, this explains why my gmail address is firstname.lastname@example.org - apparently I wanted to simplify things in my life when I set up my gmail account like 10 years ago - it is my biggest regret to date. xo, ambuntin) Anyways, I sent the BUQB the most incoherent, sloppy, grammatically incorrect e-mail ever in the existence of e-mails asking him to go to dinner with me and my parents who would be in town the following weekend. He responded with a resounding, strong to quite strong - NO. If only I'd known back then that this would only be the first of a slew of communicative misfortunes I'd have.
It took awhile but I've learned: Guys generally don’t like to be pursued by girls. That’s the guy’s job. It goes back to the stone ages when the hairy men would beat their chests, swing from branches and hunt for wild boar to provide for their girlfriends. Men are hunters, by nature. If you’re a smitten, vulnerable girl with a propensity to text aggressively after a couple of cocktails then please trust me when I tell you: it is absolutely vital that you develop some strategies to prevent yourself from texting needy, sweet nothings to your crush come cocktail hour. It took me the better part of my 20’s to realize that serial texting a crush is a HUGE no-no. It wasn’t until I hit 28 that I actually decided to do something about my textaholicism. I racked my brain for methods I could use until finally I came up with a solution: I grabbed a spoon and scooped the ball out of my blackberry and gave it to my trusted roommate. She took said ball and honored my wishes: “Here – take this. Guard it with your life." My ball-less phone disabled me from texting for a few months until finally I rifled through her room and found it sitting proudly amongst the outdated Yurman’s in her jewelry box. Needless to say, my temporary hiatus from texting guys was short lived. I promptly reinserted the ball. It wasn’t until about a year ago I finally trusted myself to get a ball-free phone. Now I am proud to say I’ve been clean from drunk texting for almost 10 months. But it’s an everyday struggle. And I'll always be in recovery. At least now I can admit it: My name is Alexandra and I'm a textaholic. (Hi Alexandra.)
2. It's taken 5 boots, like 56 parking tickets, 5 fender benders and a blown up car to make me realize that I can't drive. Or park. Or get my oil changed. I will always be a passenger or a pedestrian. I've accepted it.
4. I've learned to equate my ideal guy with my ideal egg roll: slightly golden, hot, hard and crisp, tough on the outside but warm on the inside, and filled with surprises. Also, both are better with a little sauce.
5. College was the best time I've had and probably will ever have. In retrospect (from a mature, rational standpoint), Ole Miss was probably not the right school for me - I would've benefited from going to a small, structured, all girls
commune school. But when have I ever really been into making the right decision? Going to Ole Miss was the best poor decision I've ever made - and the friends I made there are the breast people I know. Sure, going there was to the detriment of my brain cells, but lemme tell ya - Oxford, MS is one of the coolest places on earth and I feel grateful to have been able to experience it.
6. I've realized that if I had to organize different forms of egg rolls (from different Vietnamese, Chinese, etc. restaurants) into a family structure it would go a little something like this: