For what had seemed like a few long years, Colin Hay's "Waiting for My Real Life to Begin" had impatiently been my theme song.
College was filled with transitions, cluttered with not exactly relevant elective courses, awkward flings, and drowsy eyed sleepovers with friends.
These are some of life's best times. But I always felt this sort of urgency and anxiety, waiting for it to all make sense, and feel purposeful and right. Waiting for debts to be paid off, grants to be offered, and approval from parents and grandparents that you have decent work ethic and the intelligence and drive to succeed.
"I am searching for truth and freedom! (and the truth shall set you free)" was something I always used to write in my journal. Always trying to figure out what was growing up and what wasn't, wondering at every moment whether or not I got it right (Gahan Wilson).
Today, I went into the office, feeling as though I hadn't slept enough the night before. Worked through my lunch break, vomited behind the shed due to stress at 4pm, and asked my supervisor to keep the office open two hours later than usual, just trying to get my shit done. Feeling awful and overworked, with greasy hair and a growling stomach.
I came home to make leftover crepes with the batter I had made the night before, made plans to rock climb with a friend, dropped by the market to pick up a couple of groceries, and realized that my life is completely wonderful.
I forget often that while my boyfriend and I are far from perfect for one another, I love him. And the feelings are mutual.
I used to hold things in until I would just cry hysterically. We'd argue about all kinds of things that still haunt us and fill me with misgivings.
But I have a damn good job. My office is filled with brilliantly talented and supportive people.
My co-worker Shara stayed an hour late after work today, just taking extra time out of her own schedule, to help me finish a Hmong layout. Her decision only motivated by the sincere generosity of her heart.
My boyfriend sews heart buttons in the pockets of my sweaters when I accidentally leave them at his house, sends me thoughtful texts, pictures, and videos, takes me camping, and makes me smile when he's not even around, everything funny and sweet in the world reminding me of him as I walk down the street.
My legs still ache from a climbing trip we took last weekend, and are spotted with purple bruises and scrapes. Yet, I look down at them with joy, as I think about belaying down from a challenging route I took numerous falls on before reaching the top. Thinking about Tyson hugging my sweating, smelly body after I finished it. Happy I have those bruises to prove it.
Life is filled with terrible things, stressful deadlines, hurtful misunderstandings, and painful truths. But I worked hard to be at the place that I'm at, and all feels right, and I'm happy.