Plans

When I was younger I put myself in a box.

It was the kind of box that makes you feel like you have to be a certain type of person, or live a certain way, or do certain things. I was always so focused on myself and what I could or couldn’t do that eventually I grew into what you might call a selfish person. Rightfully so. Anytime somebody did something that didn’t fall in line with those ideals, I decided they couldn’t be in my box with me.

Sometimes they cared. Usually they didn’t.

The older I get the more I think about the kinds of words I want to say to people, the sorts of ideas and energies I want to put out into the world. Maybe it’s grasping at straws, a sort of existential desperation to hear an echo and feel less alone on this increasingly warm and polluted rock, but it gives me a sort of solace to think somebody out there feels the effects of the ripples I set into motion.

Small talk with the cashier. Cleaning trash off the street. Being kind to someone who is rude.

It puts my mind at ease. And these days—leaving my twenties behind and ultimately the last few sweet drops of my youth—an easy mind ain’t something to spit on.

They say thirty is the new twenty. Okay. But I had big plans for my twenties. See, I was supposed to be one of the most successful young authors of the day by twenty-three. I’d be married and have a kid on the way by twenty-five, twenty-seven at the latest. Well now I’m twenty-eight and I’m staring down thirty like it’s the barrel of Elmer Fudd’s rifle.

I’m not married. I don’t have any kids. I’ve written a lot, buddy, you better believe it, but I’m not even close to being a successful young author. Young—hah. I keep thinking about how I’m older than Stephen King was when he was first published. (Yeah, yeah, comparing yourself to the King is creative suicide, I know.) But my time is still coming—maybe in my thirties.

“Thirty is the new twenty.” We hear it. Sure, yeah, we get it. But is that supposed to make us feel better?

They also say the greatest lie the devil ever told us was that we have time. Well, we sure bought that one, didn’t we?

“You have time,” people love to say. “Thirty is the new twenty. You’re still young. You have so much time.”

Alright, we have so much time. Great. Let’s eat it for breakfast.

But do I? How much?

I reckon one of the greatest lies I told myself at twenty was that I had plenty of time. And now thirty is trying to sneak in quiet like a family late to church—we all notice.

So here I am, writing you, making little ripples. No, I’ve decided it’s not desperation—I’m desperate in different ways. This is urgency. This is eagerness and excitement. This is both selfless and selfish passionate love. It’s communication. Understanding. Energy. And it doesn’t matter when you oil the gears and get them turning—all that matters is that you do … when you have the time.

I have big plans for my thirties, a couple years left of my twenties. I guess that ole devil was right, in a way. I do have time. I have it now. And as always, I’m going to make the most of it.

Joke’s on him.

Because when I was younger I put myself in a box, and now that I’m older I realize that the fantasies and ideals of my youth aren’t what was best for me. Most of it I don’t even think about anymore.

Maybe aging ain’t so bad. Because eventually we all have to outgrow the boxes of our youths, don’t we? Maybe, just maybe, everything is going according to plan, after all.

Best,

CBM