Happiness hasn't been something that's come easily in my twenties. I'm too learnedly cautious, or, as some may say, cynical. Whereas I desire an incredible amount from the world, I expect very little. I think that's why I've ended up inhabiting four cities in the past ten years. Submitting to one place requires a a reckoning with mundanity I've been far too intimidated to take on. And there's pressure in the choosing. And that's before considering the people that will matter there, the vulnerable investment true bonds will require...
Clearly I'm still frightened But I've also been ruminating over something my mom once said, about how 34 was her favorite because it was the age she'd fully embraced who she was and felt wholly satisfied with life she was creating. Even then I found the concept so beautiful. Now, I dually appreciate the courage that made it true. If there's one thing I hope to embrace in my next decade, it's exactly that. (For the record, I intend to refute the claim that time's running out to visit these destinations, too. Are you f'ing kidding me.)
When he'd asked what I wanted to do for my birthday, I thought back to my 28th. I also fondly remembered that Mexico has a wine country. We stayed by the water and dined in courses amongst the vines and made time for horseback riding, and ocean-front reading, and margaritas after a farm animal meet-and-greet. We tasted a delectable array of smoky, sophisticated wines. It was such a privilege to satisfy so luxuriously. Magical even. Here's to accepting more of that into this wild and precious life. Next month, 30. Stay tuned.
