Last Week #25 | One of Those Girls

First things first, I have a few questions for you. How the HELL do I write about being in a relationship for a year? How do I write about the fact that this time last year I hated two dates on the calendar, and now they are some of the most positive ones (while also retaining some of that sad nostalgia).

No answer? Okay then, let’s get on with this. Last week, I posted a really angsty blog post about my birthday, because I didn’t really know what to say about it yet but I had to say something. Now, I will say something better. My birthday has always felt like a letdown, because I had it in my head that it was supposed to be this perfect day. But now I think I’ve figured out what it is to me. It’s my New Year's. It’s the day where I have a total reset, where I celebrate the change and growth of the past year of my life, look forward to the next, and eat cake. That’s what my birthday was this year. And it was nice. I’ve decided it doesn’t have to be great, because like, that’s not what New Year’s is. New Year’s is where someone always cries about their life, make resolutions for the next year of it, and drink a lot.

Eli was an integral part of making my birthday a day of celebration and light and love. He literally showered me with gifts, and it's the only time I've ever felt like an actual birthday princess. The big one (which was actually an anniversary gift) was tickets to see Conor Oberst, the lead singer of my favorite band, Bright Eyes, in concert at Carnegie Hall the day before Thanksgiving. I cried. 

In fact, that's probably the theme of this week. Tears in the face of extraordinary joy. On Saturday the 24th, on our anniversary of a year of dating, after a night of birthday shenanigans, the sadness crept in to the bright edges of our celebratory day. All day as I fought the tears, I kept trying to remember, hold in my head, that you have to be sad to be happy sometimes. Not because of those bullshit sayings like “there’s no sun without the rain.” (Bullshit. That’s just scientifically and meteorologically incorrect.) But like, in the Inside Out way. Where sometimes happiness is a little bit sad. 

The day was sad because we knew we had to bring him to the airport for a family vacation in 12, 10, 8, 6, 4 hours. The day was sad because it had been such an overwhelmingly blissful 24 hours. The day was sad because honestly, it's sad to remember how sad you were before all of the happiness came. And even though you're happy now, you still feel sad for past you. September 24th, 2013 is the day I got into the car accident that changed my life. So before I met Eli, it was a REALLY shitty day. September 24th, 2015 is the day Eli and I agreed that if dating is watching The X-Files and eating Panera together, we wanted to do that. Stat. 

I obviously didn't know when we started dating how much of a responsibility love is. Taking someone's heart in your hands and promising you won't squeeze too hard and break it is an unimaginable undertaking. One that I didn't quite understand the enormity of when we first began. We've both learned so much about that over the past year, and not always the easy way. But we've also learned the positive aspects that we never could have imagined. I think what I've learned, and this is hard for me to admit, being the extraordinarily feminist human being that I am, is that he's made my life better. He's made it brighter. He's enriched it in ways I could never have fathomed. And I don't like to admit that because I like to think of myself as someone who can do it all on her own. Who can be strong and independent and smart and get where she's going entirely on her own. To be clear, I can. And I have. But I've learned that I don't need to. Having someone by your side as you do it all doesn't mean you couldn't do it all on your own. It just means you are lucky enough to have someone by your side, cheering you on. I get scared sometimes by how much I love Eli. I get scared that I love him too much, that I'm putting too much of myself into this relationship, that I'm one of those girls who gets in a relationship and loses perspective on everything. I want to be one of those girls who works and has a career and makes awesome art and reads intelligent literature and watches inspiring indie films and has great friends and IS a great friend. And I also want to love. I know that's a lot to ask of myself. I know I do that a lot. I expressed this fear to one of my friends the other week, and she just absolutely went off on me, as only a great friend can. No. You guys are great. You love each other, but you build each other up with that love. You're helping each other grow. (That's the gist of what she said. I can't remember precisely.)

Something I realized on Saturday, as I showed him the video I made him and we went to visit our friends at their coffee shop and we talked about religion and raising families and the best way to do it all and we said I love you and sobbed and held each other like we were afraid to let go, is that I am doing all of those things that one of those girls does. I'm doing it with him, and I'm doing it alone. To quote one of the comments on my anniversary video that my beautiful, lovely, wonderful friend Jean left, "Beautiful! The two of you, separately and together." I'm going to humor myself and hope that she's right.

-Fran

Last Week #24 | Waiting for Waffles

When you hear the words "there's a 45 minute wait for waffles,"at 11:30 am on a Sunday when you haven't eaten anything yet, it doesn't really inspire courage. Or patience.

This week was a lot of valley, with Peaks in sight. I got a lot of news-- the apartment will be getting brand new cabinets, you have 5 assignments due October 3rd, your birthday is next week, and oh yeah, the official move-in date is October 1st. By Saturday, I was a hurricane of emotions. As I had to assure Eli, it wasn't anyone's fault. It just happened, and suddenly I was too overwhelmed to even spend time with him. Figuring out the logistics of where we were going to go was too much, so I sent him home, felt guilty, laid in my bed, watched my favorite movie, and cried. 

There's been so much happening lately, I think it all just caught up to me, and I couldn't even give love to the person I love the most, because I hadn't given enough love to me.

My birthday is tomorrow, and I don't feel ready for my it. I don't ever, really. I mean, who feels ready to face the fact that another year has gone by and what have they done with it and also they're one year closer to death?! Certainly not me. But I'm also not ready for the disappointment. I mean, really. Who decided it was a good idea for everyone to have one specific day each year that they can pin all their idyllic birthday hopes and dreams on? It's practically guaranteed to be a letdown. And it's, again, not anyone's fault. It's the system's fault. (F*ck the system, man.) Each year, my birthday feels a lot like waiting 45 minutes for waffles. Exasperating, and at the end someone usually does something wrong, like gives you vanilla instead of chocolate ice cream on top. Listen, this isn't meant to be some white girl's first-world-problems post about how she hates her birthday because she never got a pony. (Truth be told, I never wanted a pony. My biggest dream was to get a portable DVD player with the Gilmore Girls boxed set and be left alone to watch it in my room.) No, maybe I just don't know how to have a good birthday.

Case in point: last weekend, I had an early birthday celebration with Eli's family, and I was holding back tears the entire time. Not because it wasn’t nice, but because it was, and I didn't know how to deal with it. I thought a lot about how a person becomes who they are. Suddenly, without knowing it, these random people just understand your aesthetic and you become known for a purple flower and brownie pie. I still don’t understand family, because mine is not what I ever expected, or, if we’re being honest, what I hoped for. It’s more, and it’s less. It’s disappointing and it’s more than I’d ever imagined. So I don't know what to expect from tomorrow, but I've decided not to make a big deal of it. Last year, the 19th was way better than the 20th. My friends threw a party for me, and as I drove home in the rain with the boy I really, really liked in the passenger seat, I started to cry because it had been too perfect. 

"So maybe I don't want the perfect birthday, because I probably wouldn't be able to handle it anyway." I think to myself negatively as I write this at 8:50 on a Monday morning. And then I realize that is exactly what my astrologer was talking about when she said I needed to let go, and open my heart and deal with Chiron and shit. Maybe I need to let go of the bad birthday archetype I have in my head, and open myself up to it being whatever it's gonna be. Okay, that was a more positive ending, right? 

 -Fran

Last Week #23 | Act Your Age

 Since I didn’t write a blog post last week, I am going to write a little about both two weeks ago, and this past week. Between last week and this week, a weekend existed. A glorious, perfect, amazing three day weekend. (For the first time in my life, I understand why Labor Day exists.) Eli and I went to my family’s lake house in the finger lakes, because I had only been there once all summer and decided this was probably my last chance, before school and work and creative business overtook me and my precious schedule. So we went, and spent time with my cousins, who were also there. 

During the first evening’s dinner, talking to my cousin who is precisely my age and also still in college, I was telling her everything I do with my time. (I’m a talker.) 

At the end of it, she looked astounded. 

"You're doing so much!" She said.

"What do you mean?" I replied.

"You're doing so many things that you're passionate about!"

I was confused. Wasn't that the point? Sure, you probably have to get a 9-5 to survive, preferably in something that you don't hate, but that doesn’t mean you should then spend the rest of your precious time bemoaning the fact that you don't have any time to do what you love. Use that precious little time to DO WHAT YOU LOVE. I get up early and do those things, or use that time to do things that are good for me. Then I go to work, and try to put myself into it. And then I come home, and I try to love others. My boyfriend, my friends, myself. I do some fun things, but mainly deliberately unproductive things. And that's it. That's all I do. That's all we can do. 

Since my birthday is nigh, I’ve been thinking a lot about age. And for some reason, that old adage keeps fluttering back into my head. “Act your age.” And I hate that adage. What even is age? As one of the books that always sat on my mother’s kitchen shelf read, “Age is just a number.” So I don’t get how I can act it. When you’re a young person, people tell you to do this a lot. And it confuses me. Because, how the hell do I act 21? Do I drink? And therefore perpetuate stereotypes about my generation? Or do I work really hard, just so they’ll say that I’m the exception? Is there a way to act your age without stereotyping yourself? I’m afraid I don’t know the answer. Right now I’m nearly 21, I have a full time job and I’m a part-time student. I’m a full time girlfriend and best friend and creator. And I’m also a full-time Fran. I might be young, I feel really old. I hate that just because I haven’t lived 47 years, I’m considered less. I wish that when people said “act your age” they didn’t mean, “Act the age I wish you still were.” It seems that many people are confused by young people if they don’t fit in to a box they can understand. So they say "act your age" but they mean, “Act a different way so I can make sense of you.” I’m 21, I have a full time job, I’m a student, I’m in love, and I’m creative and logical and practical and impractical and stupid and senseless and naive and wise beyond my years. 

I guess what I'm saying is, I don't want to be known for, and judged by, my age. I want to be known for my personality, or writing, or purple hair, or art, or how hard I work, or my heart. And maybe I am. This weekend, I babysat for a family I've been watching for years. (About 6, to be exact.) 

I was telling them about my job, and the mom said, "You're working full time and still doing school?!" She seemed taken aback, like she couldn't believe it. I sighed and moaned about how yes, I was crazy enough to be doing that (because to be honest it was almost 1 am and I was half asleep and freaking moody), but in the back of my head I was thinking, "Dude. Come on. I have a very delicate balance going on here. Don't make me question how in the hell I'm doing this. If I think about it too hard, it'll all come crumbling down."  But the next day, in talking to one of my good friends, she said, "It's because you're an organizational queen. That's how." Essentially telling me to never question or doubt myself. And that's what I mean. I want to be known for who I am, not for my age, not for how much I do. As one of my favorite astrologers once said, "You're a human being, not a human doing." I'm trying to remember that in this stressful time, this age of the rat race, this season of my life. 

-Fran