For better or for worse: the fourth decade of life:

Another rotation around the sun and for a second there, I was a bit worried about turning 30. I wish I could tell you that I was worried about something existential or even political, but I was worried that I was going to wake up at 30 then immediately stop tolerating gluten and my body would instantaneously sag.  I am happy to report that I am still eating carbs and 9.8m/s² hasn’t quite gotten me yet. Other than my vanity, I still have those other thoughts too: Am I living it right? Have I achieved what I have wanted to achieve in my career so far? How many licks does it take to get to the centre of a Tootsie Roll Pop?

A new decade calls from some reflection, which should hopefully demonstrate some kind of depth or growth if we’re lucky. Other than hair growth for the fact in the last ten years I’ve gone from bald to hair halfway down my back and every length in between. But hey – not a single strand of grey. Now I know I’m tempting fate.

To say that I am entirely a better person now than in my early twenties would be downright wrong. Sure, I was narcissistic, whiny, and horrible at saving money – I’m a millennial, so I am still all those things. I thought I’d pick out a few places where I feel I’ve improved and others that could use some work.    

Better

At being a partner

Recently, a memory on Facebook was recirculated that was a picture of me, eight of my Asian friends and my white boyfriend in University. I hadn’t thought about him in a long while. I like that the photo still exists; permanence is a funny thing because nothing ever really dies on the internet. It made me remember how terrible we were for each other and how I feel I’ve grown as an actual partner rather than as a girlfriend.

Being an adult is hard, the internet reminds us of this all the time. I didn’t have that much practice being a girlfriend in my twenties, and now I’m becoming a wife. They’re just labels, I think, +/- some jewelry if that's your thing. However, I feel confident and comfortable making up the rules with my to-be husband and how we’ll shape our lives together. He also gets to be a white man in photos with many Chinese people; some things do not change.

At understanding parts of the world

For a hefty portion of my life I had only lived in Canada. To a lot of the outside world, quite an idyllic little bubble. And I relished that bubble. I recently interviewed a candidate for London Business School and when prompted to discuss the candidate’s international experience, I thought back to my own interview when still in this candidate’s shoes. I really didn’t have any international experience minus having travelled bits of Asia and Europe. At that time, I had not yet passed the equator. Would I even have put myself through to LBS if I interviewed 25-year-old me?

Having the privilege to move to other countries is one I have really cherished in the past few years. This includes the distinct privilege of administrative paper work of visa application processes, opening a bank account and obtaining a tax number. To me, you only really move to a country if you are hassled and inconvenienced in the most administrative of ways. 

Paperwork aside, moving out your home country gives a better view about how the rest of the world works (or sometimes doesn’t). When you’re a traveller (which is still infinitely better than being a tourist) you get to go home and be happy in your bubble. Once you move somewhere that bubble bursts, you start all over again and you learn to roll with the new normal. But it’s fun, I promise. On the days I am not doing paperwork.  

At not giving a fuck

When I was in my early twenties, it was my goal to be in the Saturday Style section of The Globe and Mail (Canada’s National Newspaper). They often covered “society” events and charity galas, taking photos of Canadian socialites (an oxymoron to be sure, however I do not believe I have access to the Real Housewives of Toronto from my current geographic location to confirm with certainty). I once took a sick day from work, rented a car and drove to buy a new dress for a literary gala that I was volunteering at, not even attending. I wonder if Margaret Atwood noticed. The point to take away from that is the dress has still served me well and my career has not suffered. At the same time, I never achieved my goal. 

These days if I’ve already left the shower and forgotten to shave my legs, I’ll wear a skirt to work anyway. I feel like perhaps the frumpiness of being settled is hitting me. Those bikini waxes were never for me; I lied to myself all through my twenties. We all did/do. Now I feel as if I’m just shy of mom jeans, if way-cool hipster women weren’t wearing mom jeans. I don’t even know what’s uncool enough anymore. But I do have elastic waist dress pants for work and they are heaven. It’s all downhill from here, and I don’t give a fuck.

Worse

At being a friend

I’ve heard this one before – as one gets older it becomes somewhat uncommon to make new friends and sometimes it seems hard to stay in touch with people who live in same city as you. A friend of mine (see, I still have them!) sent me this New Yorker article that seems to perfectly sum up “adulting”. 

I used to be a really good friend. The kind that would set up scavenger hunts on university campus for your birthday, send you care packages, and write you postcards from all over the world. Now I don’t even write on people’s Facebook walls for their birthdays (obviously, the ultimate slight). Am I shittier person for it? Probably.

But all I can say in my defence is that I think about you sometimes. I’m not just always thinking about myself. And I have one of those private smiles - you know the kind. It’s the kind where a person walking in the opposite direction can see you’re thinking warmly about a distant memory. I love seeing those kinds of smiles on someone else’s face when I walking somewhere. I wonder what the person is thinking about. Been in a while since I’ve seen one though, since no one walks in Johannesburg. 

In a way, I hope you are also going through a time where you also feel you can sometimes be a crappy friend too; that way we can both feel bad. Schadenfreude is a wonderful feeling, isn’t it? I am a shit person after all.  

As a writer

It has been said that to become a better writer, one must be a better reader. And I am actually trying to get better at that. I haven’t read for pleasure since undergrad, I felt bad cheating on my textbooks with books I actually wanted to read. In my now quieter (devoid of posh galas) life I really cherish the opportunity losing myself in a book. To add my list of things I do while walking (eating is my #1 complementary skill) reading is another favourite. And I know I said I didn’t walk anymore, but I do have one half hour walk from work to my gymnastics club on Thursday evenings, (small, flat) nose firmly buried in a novel.

What I have been is especially horrible to my writing. I have bemoaned how infrequently I write this blog before, but still haven’t pushed myself to get better. More recently, I’ve been writing reports for work. Using Microsoft Word in the workplace has been foreign to me for quite some time now. Past passive voice is no one’s friend, however. Worse still, I am a child of the “PowerPoint as answer to all life’s questions” generation so I’ve spent countless hours writing and re-writing headlines and eliminating articles to fit into two lines. Corporate templates are corporate templates - and not to be fucked with. To an extent, I am all for concise communication; what is more, I am all for expressiveness. 

I still use too many adverbs to be considered any kind of highbrow writer. Still, I find them endlessly useful. Grammar nerds will see what I did there.

At still giving too many fucks

As staunchly as I would like to proclaim that I’m a self-actualized being whose needs are all met (including WiFi), that would be a lie. I am still riddled with my insecurities and short-comings (perceived and actual). I spend a lot of time trying to figure out if I’m normal (or basic, should you be so inclined) and how to combat being utterly ordinary. Now that I’m getting married, how soon until I have (a) child(ren) and live some kind of suburban nightmare? When in my twenties, the reality of anything so horrible was so foreign, I never prepared myself for it at all. My life would be to rent in a city centre somewhere, blow all of my rat race money on travel and then die. Now I have no idea. 

I don’t have Instagram, but doesn’t all that shit just cross post to Facebook, anyway? And yes, the juniors in my office do tell me that only old people use Facebook. There I am anyway constantly scrolling to see how other people are veneering their lives quite literally with filters. We are all trying to cover up our own inadequacies.

I suppose this means lots to work on in my thirties. Ways to move forward and some ways to move back. Hopefully my writing isn’t so infrequent that the next time I check in I am 40.

[Note: The Lynn Johnston comic used without permission as the title photo for this entry is the comic for my birthday 13 March 2017. Not knowing what the comic was when I wrote this, I feel it fits thematically. 

For those unfamiliar with the comic - For Better or For Worse is a comic strip by Lynn Johnston that ran originally from 1979 to 2008 chronicling the lives of a Canadian family, The Pattersons, and their friends. The story is set in the fictitious Toronto-area suburban town of Milborough, Ontario. Now running as reruns, For Better or For Worse is still seen in over 2,000 newspapers throughout Canada, the United States and about 20 other countries.]