Third of Life Crisis

Oof. I haven't felt this much pressure to present a Changed, Updated Self since I got married in 2016.

Before that, I felt the same pressure in 2011, when I came back from taking a three-week trip to Europe without my family.

These are the only three times I've felt this exact brand of pressure. What is causing it this time?

Turning thirty :)

Thirty is still young—for sure. But you're not a kid. You're definitely, undeniably NOT a kid. You're not a teenager. You're not a "twenty-something." You may be immature and you certainly still have a lot to learn, but you're an adult. It feels like the grace period for figuring out life has expired. By this point, you should know how to do your taxes or who to pay to do them for you. You should know how to cook meals. You should know how to get established at an eye doctor and a dentist. You should know when to buy expensive staple pieces and if it's appropriate to by anything trendy.

There is now a whole, fully functioning generation that is younger than you, but old enough to be in college.

Of all the topics I've blogged about multiple times, this is The One: this concept of constantly being surprised that I'm still Me. At every milestone age, I'm confused that Brunette Superwoman hasn't taken the baton from me. It's still just Me. I guess maybe that won't ever stop blowing my mind?

And now I'm wondering something. See, I can do all of those things I listed above. I do know how to get my taxes done (even though that means handing Gabe all the necessary paperwork and saying, "Mkay do you want me to refill your water while you do this?"). I can cook and make appointments and buy expensive clothes when I need to. I can really do most things that adults are supposed to be able to do.

So I think the question buried under all of this is actually, "When will I be able to be proud of myself?"

See, I've always been proud of Brunette Superwoman, who is a fictitious projection of what I thought I would/could become by age thirty-ish. She's a powerhouse. She's so capable it's scary. She's maybe what I might've become without depression, but...that's a dumb, dangerous game. There was never a version of me who didn't struggle with depression, because—in reality—there's only ever been one me. I'm not going into any multiverse theories right now.

I guess what's really happening in my mind isn't "When am I going to feel grownup?" or "When do I become Brunette Superwoman?"* but "When will I ever feel like I've 'done it'?" And maybe that answer is still "Never." Maybe no one ever feels like they've "done it" or "made it."

I did have a really weird out-of-body experience last week. This'll be too mystical/spiritual for some people, but last week while lying on the couch, something in a TV show triggered something in my brain and I was inhabited by my College Self for two minutes or so. College Me was alive and present in my brain alongside Current Me, and I got to watch her look around at the life I'd built with Gabe.

"This is your apartment?" she breathed, staring at the gray-purple walls and big TV and space, all the space that was legally mine—mine and my husband's. She realized that her future husband was a chemical engineer, and she was a curriculum developer. She had real job—a career.

She was enchanted by the decorations. Everything was gray and teal and she loved it. She couldn't believe I owned all this stuff. We'd bought a couch and a couple of perfect chairs and a really nice dining room table.

"This is your life?" she breathed. "How can you feel like you haven't made it?"

Until I started typing about it, I had actually forgotten about that bizarre experience. (Man, this keeps HAPPENING to me lately. I'll be mid-post and get T-boned with something that takes the post in a completely different direction.)

So. Jeez. Never mind, I guess? Maybe I'm doing okay. Maybe we all are. Maybe our younger selves would be impressed. Maybe we're all the Super Versions of ourselves just by freakin being here still. If you're alive, you've done it. You've made it. Damn, sometimes just being alive is the hardest part.

If you're reading this, I'm telling you that you have permission from this random thirty-year-old to be proud of yourself—NOW. Whatever it's taken to get you here, you got here. Whatever state you're in, YOU'RE HERE, and that's something to be proud of.

Every time I blog about her, I think it'll be the last time Brunette Superwoman haunts me, but she still pops up in my mind's eye as a wistful future possibility. Maybe she always will. I know she's not coming, there's only ever gonna be me, but...

I dunno, maybe I can do it. Maybe it's like when they needed the Ring to be destroyed and all they had was Frodo to do it. He wasn't Brunette Superman, but, I mean, he still got the job done.

I guess I'll try to be proud of myself as I am. If I'm going to assume everyone else is doing the best they can, the least I can do is give myself the same courtesy. So.

Yay thirty. I've decided that I've made it :)

~ Stephanie

* I can feel some of y'all prepping your "But you ARE Brunette Superwoman to me!" All I can say is that whatever you're seeing isn't what I'm talking about.