Becoming an adult (slowly)

Whenever something dramatic happens a girl usually cuts her hair. I don’t know how this whole dramatic hair chopping thing commenced but we can trace it perhaps to the guillotine where wayward women were sent to face their sins. Whatever.

To celebrate all the changes in life I decided to grow my hair, instead of doing the usual G.I. Jane crap. For the first time in 10 years I made a concerted effort to grow the mop. I bought shampoo that was made for the sole purpose of making hair grow strong and a wee bit faster and a serum that kind of doubled the promises. I bought elastics and went to the mall trying on wigs preparing for my future as a rugrat.

The other day I pulled it into its first ponytail. I looked like a fifth grader with issues.

The beginning of 2008 was the end of many things for me. For one, I was single. For the first time. Ever. Yes, the co-dependent marshmallow grew cojones and instead of speed-dating and all that frantic jazz that newly minted singles do, I just concentrated on how to make the best grilled cheese sandwich ever. I also went on to paint my apartment, which now puts a bagful of Skittles to shame: an elegant shade of taupe. Yes, taupe, the most boring color in eyeshadow history. The color went over the cranberry and turquoise fizz that colored my walls during a more colorful era.

I was beyond beige. I was taupe.

On Jan. 25, 2008, I had my last-ever cocktail. I also found the first line under my eye. I was getting old. And I liked it.

There are so many great things about getting older. One of the things that you usually can’t get away with being younger — the world-weary, been-there-done-that card — can get you practically whatever you want. Naiveté can maybe get you out of trouble. However, wisdom is all about solutions. World-weariness is all about editing.

I no longer had to pull that baby face when I got caught doing something slightly less baby-ish and more retarded. I had to just look at the offended party, say “sorry,” and walk away. That’s how the world is; you do things that you’re sorry for and move on. Those lines under the eyes aren’t there for nothing.

This raises the question: Can you have everything?

In my arrogant younger years I thought I could. I was going to be married to my best friend in the whole wide world. I had my dream job. I had a great social life. A basketful of friends, some of whom after years of earned wisdom turned out to be basket cases in my newly sharpened eyes.

They say when your professional life is great, your personal life is probably in a shambles. And vice versa. After years of histrionics I decided to focus on striking that much-desired balance. A friend of mine told me that it was a curse to have it all. When you have everything or are in the position to get anything you want, you have nothing left to dream for. I guess I’m lucky to have been born on the avenue of window-shopping for life adventures. I don’t only dream, I also daydream. A marked trait of slow adults. Yet for a second there, in the heart of my 20s, I did think I had it all. A true sign that you still have a long way to go. Take it from an old hag.

This year excites me a lot. This is the year I turn 30. I have seen many friends who, on the cusp of turning 30, either become vegans or raging alcoholics. It’s almost like it’s been secretly told to them that the day they turn 30 the Second Coming of the Messiah will happen and they either have an E! Celebrity-esque meltdown or heal themselves for salvation. If they are single, they fidget that they will never get married. If they are married, they see the impregnable brick wall with the graffiti “This is it” emblazoned on it.

There’s a lot of pressure being a real adult these days. There is no reason to eff up. You have the information era beside you supplying you with everything you need to know — from how to cook turkey from scratch to applying your “demons” to something more functional like pottery or skydiving. If you want to be a respectable adult, you must be sure you’re medicated in the right places. I mean, geez, there’s even a pill that’s prescribed if you’re shy. A shy pill? Seriously. Also to have all the building blocks of being a decent human being, i.e. knowing how to send “thank you” cards, not wearing grandma panties with heels when socializing in public places and saying “please” like a spasm. Then as you get older, there is also the pressure of not looking older. With all the lasers, creams and self-tanning lotions out there… you need to learn to look like you just graduated from high school while having a decent job and an apartment that doesn’t use celebrity pictures as wallpaper.

Along with my Afghan hound mane, my eye filigree also comes with the occasional zit. A reminder I’m still on the cusp of youth and age or perhaps a throbbing reminder that I’m indeed a slow adult.

I’m excited about being 30. I feel like I’ll finally be able to do my job and look like I deserve it. Not look like an intern who lucked out (if you watch enough Grey’s Anatomy you’ll know what I mean) and gets to interview international celebrities just by chance. My current dream is to be able to interview Chelsea Handler. I have big dreams. My 30s will take me there.

In the relationship arena, I feel I have been trained by the best. I have been lucky to have the best ex-boyfriends in the world. I’ve been, as one of them said recently, “broken in.” Meaning I’ve seen through their bullshit and they have seen through mine, and now it’s time to start anew without the tedious reruns of the faded romances of yore.  There will be eff-ups, but at least they will be original this time.

As for family, you know you’re truly 30 when you love them for the Wes Andersonian ways that they are. In your teens parents looked like ATMs on legs or prison wardens alternately. In your wildly insecure 20s they were the source of many hypnotic delusions about your failures and they seemed like the pillars of judgment. Now all you want to do is take them out for dinner. And hopefully buy them a dog that wears shirts when they start badgering you for grandkids.

I love the freedom that comes with getting old. It is the freedom that comes with truly getting to know yourself. The departure of youthful arrogance and the advent of ripe confidence, so juicy it can stain any residual insecurity into oblivion. 

I started this column just right after the Y2K scare. As we all know, it never happened. It was a fear that we harbored on the verge of a new millennium; instead of looking forward, we all stood as stiff as bricks waiting to see if the world was going to fall apart. Indeed, many other things happened instead, things no one would ever have predicted. From 9/11 to the financial meltdown, it was a year that redefined the world we lived in. Then the first African-American president of the United States was elected to office. It was a sign of new times and that hope is always just around the corner. The first decade of the millennium is drawing to a slow close. I look back at all my old articles; some make me laugh and some make me cringe. I’ll miss the fact that I have said goodbye to my innocence. My golden youth, when I could fall in love so easily without worries, move from country to country when I lusted for a new adventure in life and when I could get into trouble and be saved. I now face a new chapter in my life where the stakes are bigger, the consequences larger and the rewards last a lifetime.

When Obama was caught without his shirt off, the old me would have said, “Zexy!” Now I found myself thinking, “How did the photographer get so close?” I was turning into my paranoid mother. I was done being my father’s happy-go-lucky daughter. I’m ready to be the responsible worrywart. No more idiotic champagne glass balancing acts in bars. More like a hypochondriac, neurotic, cranberry juice-swilling 30-something who will embrace migraines from paying the bills, from headaches, from yet another disastrous hangover.

If this is it, bring it on.