Stay of Execution

Mid Thirties

On Thursday I turn 34, and leave my early 30s behind forever.  Mid thirties, here I come.  Yikes.  Mid 30s is the time of professional accomplishment, the earning years, family time.  The time of exploration is over; now it's time to get done what it is you're supposed to do.  It's a lot to live up to, the associations I have about this life stage.  No more laughing, no more fun -- now it's time to Get Things Done.  People in their mid thirties are Definitely Grown Ups.  I was more grown up when I turned 30 than I am now -- rocketing along in my responsible professional career, a new home- and boat-owner, socking away savings.  And I'm happier now, I think, although making sluggish and wobbly progress along a much less well-defined path.  So it's hard for me to figure out what my path through the Mid 30s should look like.

Between this occasion (birthdays are always a time of self-reflection for me), and the end of the year with its inevitable assessment of 2006 and aspirations for 2007, and being here in a strange town with a new sweetie, I've been thinking a lot about what I want for the upcoming year.  I'll blurt some of it out here.

An Incomplete List of Biases I have

Malcolm Gladwell's been writing about prejudice lately on his blog, and it got me thinking about my own biases.  I have a bias against:

• left-handers
• PhDs.
• people with those grommets in their ears that stretch out their earlobes with big holes in the middle.
• women with huge blingy diamond rings
• people who have 'witty' bumper stickers on their cars
• women who wear headbands
• people who played baseball in college
• Jimmy Buffet fans
• libertarians

In every case except the grommet ears and the witty bumper stickers, I've overcome my prejudices and have warm and respectful relationships with people who meet the criteria above.  Somehow that hasn't gotten rid of the bias, though.  Maybe I should start looking for some bumper sticker and grommet ear friends, to open my mind a little bit more.

UPDATE: Also:

• vegans
• people who sail Catalinas or Hunters

You Could Do Worse

When doing your Christmas shopping, you could do worse than some handmade, funky gifts from Maine.  I like the T-shirts at Milo (guess which one is my favorite) and the buttons and cards and plush dream pet toys at Ferdinand.  I'm not usually a fan of scented things, but these balsam pillows make your underwear drawer smell piney and terrific.  Or, if you order a Sea Bag, it might have been made with sails from a certain college sailing team that we all love to root for.  You can get a bag from Portmanteau that you could use to carry a picnic to an island, and then use the bag to navigate your way home. 

Stir The Pot

We were sitting at a long table at a brew pub, playing pub trivia.  The fellow beside me jovial, bow-tied, changing his beer order each time the waitress came by to check on us.  The fellow beside him baby-faced, quick with high fives, leaning across bow-tie-guy to talk to me. Turns out they grew up together, both sons of pentacostal preachers.  "He's my best friend," they each told me.  One grew up to be a lawyer, and one grew up to be a preacher. 

I asked the preacher to tell me about his church.  When I hear pentacostal I think preaching in tongues -- is that an accurate association?  He danced around it.  We call it being moved by the spirit, but it doesn't happen in our church so much as in other churches.  We're a church for seekers, we get a lot of people who were raised catholic or from other denominations.  They're a little bit more staid.  The lawyer listened and made faces, pursing his lips here and there, raising his eyebrows, nodding, tilting his head as the preacher explained his faith to me.  I asked the lawyer if he believes anymore.  "I don't know," he said.  "I don't think so.  I'm not sure."  His friend, the preacher, looked on.  Do you believe in the divinity of Christ? I asked.  "Man, you go right to the quick, don't you?"  He said, "I'm not sure.  I'm really not sure.  I don't think I do."  The preacher shook his head, listening in.  "I believe in loving your neighbor as yourself.  If there's any god, that's the way I would believe.  I try to do that."  I asked the preacher, "Is that enough?  Is he a Christian, if he emulates Christ in the way he lives but he does not believe?"   Absolutely not, the preacher said. 

I sat back and listened to the two of them pushing and pulling.  Maybe it was just my ears, but their southern accents seemed to deepen when they were quoting scripture at one another, a thickened tapestry of sounds that occasionally left me completely behind.  The fellows across the table, who had been talking about mountain biking, looked up and raised their eyebrows at the two preachers' sons, debating what it means to be saved. 

What I Had For Lunch Yesterday

Yesterday was a good day: up earlyish, coffee and a muffin and the New York Times in a coffee shop.  Then a 5k trail race, in shorts.  Can't do that in Maine in December.  Then took the dogs to a dog park, where they romped in the rustly dead leaves with perhaps 20 other dogs of all sizes and breeds.  Lunch was a turkey sandwich.  I went grocery shopping while NBT watched football, and then we both went and found the best Christmas tree in Raleigh.  It smells very, very good.  The dogs slept.  NBT chopped onions and peppers while I browned beef and sausage and simmered tomatoes and wine, and I finished the crossword puzzle and he read the paper while the lasagna baked.  After dinner we watched Lost until we couldn't keep our eyes open any more.  It was a good day.   

[Real post coming later.  For now, I'm off to explore Chapel Hill with a musician I know a little bit.]

That Was A Long Drive

Google Maps told me it would be 832 miles, and my odometer reads 836 miles -- just about right with the small detours to get dinner (with the delightful Mr. Weeble), sleep, and of course stretch Lila's legs and mine.  I sent text messages to NBT every 83 miles -- 10% there, 20% there, etc.  I made pretty good time, with only about 25 minutes of traffic, once in the Bronx and once in a construction merge just south of DC.  It took me exactly two tanks of gas to get here: the empty tank light had just come on when I pulled up to NBT's place. 

I gave the finger to all the Hummers I saw.  I listened to NPR almost the whole time, listening first to the Iraq Study Group announcing their findings, then to commenters discussing the findings, then to news reporters spinning the findings.  It was interesting to see the way the story morphed and changed over the course of the day, and to hear which sound bites they selected by the time All Things Considered came on.  When I got south of DC I listened to Christian radio for a while, and to a station that played "classic top 40" -- hello, Pat Benetar.

The doggies are now dozing near one another beside me.  NBT's dog, Spinnaker, is an older fellow who takes his food very seriously.  Lila is bigger and stronger and younger and more energetic.  They've had a couple of scuffles and have also played pretty happily together.  We all went on a run this morning and now they're good and tired.  At feeding time this morning they fought when she came over to investigate his eating area; I'm hopeful that with a staggered feeding time we can avoid a rivalry. 

The Narrative Arc Heads South

Geez, people.  I was going to tell you.  Tomorrow I get in my little car and drive south, to North Carolina.  No, I'm not moving there.  I'm staying until the second week of January, unless there's a compelling reason to come home sooner. 

This means that things with NBT are very good.  I'm tempted to add a lot of hedging things here, like, "it's early yet" or "it's too soon to say" or "I could be wrong" or "who knows if this can be trusted" but that inclination to hedge and back away from hope is a relic from when I was really guarded.  All of my past dating failures made me afraid to believe in possibility, because I was afraid it would dissolve and I'd feel disappointed and embarrassed.  I guess those walls were a self-protective mechanism, but I am not sure they were good for me.  The truth is I don't want to hedge on this.  It's going really well.   

Maybe I'm wrong about NBT, but that goes without saying.  It doesn't feel like I'm wrong.  I'm not afraid of being wrong.  I'm not afraid at all.  I just feel happy, and relieved.  It's the feeling of breathing out, the feeling of seeing the ocean, the feeling of walking into the house and setting a heavy bag down.  He's a cool glass of water.  (But he is not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards.)

What I've Been Thinking About

• North Carolina
• What gifts to buy various people.  I am very bad at this.
• Next year's sailing schedule
• Taboos, large and small, and how they distinguish social groups from one another.  (I went to see Borat with my parents, (Mom writes about it here) and found it much more thought-provoking than funny.  She thought it was adolescent. I guess it was, but I can't dismiss it that easily.  I didn't enjoy it, really, but I'll be thinking about it for a long time.)
• What I want out of next year, my first year in my mid-thirties, and what changes I should bring about in my life.
• What this blog has meant to me, and what it means to me now
• Jane Eyre and the cliche of the orphan narrator
• Small things wrong with my house and my car
• Friendship, and how you know when a new friend is a keeper. 
• The errands I should be running right now.
• My fitness goals for the next six weeks

Since I can't keep anything to myself, I'll probably blog about some of this.   Maybe not the errands and what I should fix about my car.  Boring.  Might have people drop me from their blogrolls.  Can't have that. 

Question

If you could give up all awareness and/or consciousness of what is "cool," would you? 

In other words, does knowing which clothing or music or television or foods or habits is cool, and which is dorky or lame, improve your life at all? 

[I ask because I have been out of sorts all day, because I am wearing a pair of jeans I got not too long ago.  When I got them I thought they were reasonably cool, but upon wearing them I realize that they are a tiny bit too short for me.  And that makes them definitively uncool.  Knowing this just makes me feel bad, bad, bad.  My life would be happier if I didn't know what length of jeans is cool.  But I am not sure I am adult enough to wish to be completely oblivious to such things.]

It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

Went out with the Hooked On Tonics gals last night.  Seemed like a good idea to bring the feather boas.  Seemed like a good idea to play the erotic photo hunt touchscreen video game.  Seemed like a good idea to drink two beers, a jello shot, two fruity vodka drinks, and two gin drinks.  Seemed like a good idea to send a flurry of text messages to men none of us are dating.  Seemed like a good idea to try to convince the woman beside us at the bar that the guy who'd been hitting on us at the last bar would be PERFECT for her.  Seemed like dancing to that organ trio was the only thing we could do.  Seemed like a funny joke to periodically put a hand on Ruby's belly and pretend to feel something kicking inside.  Seemed like a good idea to take all those pictures at strange angles, lurching, red eyes, double chins, close-up of nostrils, blinking, etc. Seemed like a good idea to tell the H.O.T. girls just how rare and special their friendship is, just how inspiring they are.  Seemed like a good idea to eat that whole big bag of kettle corn before bed.  Seemed like a good idea to order the greasiest breakfast on the menu.