Dirty, Perty, Not-So-Wordy 30

So, yesterday, I turned 30 years old.

Which is hard for me to believe.

So much is hard for me to believe as of late. Because it seems like some of my, like, dreams are starting to come true. And shit.

I know, high falootin' words for a girl who blogs about her bloomin' so rarely these days. You'd think I'd have a lot to say on the subject of feeling good. But words are difficult right now. They just are.

Damn, same old complaint.

But still, with all the wonderful things that are happening in my life presently, I still feel a small emptiness. And part of that really is because I'm not really writing. Not writing creates a void. It does. It is so a part of me but I just can't do it sometimes. Like when you're just too lazy to take a shower, but you know, you'll KNOW you'll feel better if you take one. Sort of. See, even my similes stink.

Lately, I'm afraid of it. Afraid of my words. I get choked up just thinking about what I want to write down. Here's a leap: there was a time when I was afraid of my body. Didn't want to get near it. Couldn't stand the thought of bringing my body out into the sun and showing it off. Now, I can do that. But words. About relationships that matter. That mean so much to me. Are hiding from me. Scared little words. With big fat powers.

I know what you're thinking: just say what you want to say. Yup. You're right. Trying to get there. By writing this.

But I mean, I have been being creative. Performing again. That's something, at least...

Historically, I have never really been balanced. I'll be writing all the time, and not seeing a single soul. I'll be a social butterfly and not creating a thing. I'll be exercising like a maniac and spending no time with the books and movies that I love. I'll be hard at work and neglecting my family.

My father always said: "Janie, balance is the key." And he's right. It is. I have little balance right now. I'm practically falling over.

But I'm super happy. I find myself bursting into tears from feeling good. Is that normal? Probably not. Feels okay, though. For now. "For now." That's not nearly as foreboding as it sounds. I just mean that I'm relying too much on heart and body stuff to feel good right now. No nerdy Janie stuff. The nerdy Janie stuff was relied upon too much in the past. But Nerdy Janie Stuff needs to come out and play as well! And soon. I feel like my brain's getting soggy.

Balance or no balance--being happy is good.

Sigh.

I'm supposed to make a list of shit to do in this next year. You know, cuz I'm 30. I made a list this summer when things were getting out of control in my personal life but I didn't really accomplish much on that list. Honestly, making the list feels good enough sometimes but after a few months of not really addressing the list, I feel a little embarrassed. It's really time to make a do-able list. For my 30th.

Immediately coming to mind are these things:
1) write more
2) cook more
3) exercise more

All that means is if I'm writing once a day to write twice. If I'm cooking twice a week, cook three times. If I'm exercising once a week, do it two times.

I'm sexing enough. I'm seeing enough friends. I'm connected with my family. My job sucks, though. Oh, let's add that:

4) apply for more jobs.

I took the day off today. It was an impulsive decision. It was a long wonderful weekend and I needed a day to myself. To listen to some new music. Hang out with the strap-on. Write something down. Be wrapped up in flannel. Order a sandwich. Reconnect. With myself. And with the blog.

Dye my hair, maybe.

I'm trying to push myself to write right now. I think, maybe, give me a few days and I'll just bubble over. There will be no room left in me and the page will catch what spills over.

My 23 year-old brother came into town this last weekend. Came to a party at a bar with lots of my friends. I looked at him at one point, and thought to myself, he's so handsome. He's so mature. People are laughing at his jokes. All the girls are looking at him, sneaking glances every now and again. I hope he gets everything he wants. Every single thing. And then I started to cry. Quietly. In the corner. No one noticed. I was admittedly a little drunk. It wasn't a big deal. But at that moment, I realized something: I wasn't thinking about my own needs at all. Not because I was neglecting them for someone else's. Which I've been known to do. But because, at that moment, I felt so content. And older. And happy to be 30. And not--God FORBID--20. I was a wreck at 20. Maybe when I turn 40, I'll look back and think, I was such a wreck at 30. I think that's the best thing that could happen. Feel better about who I am with every 10 years.

I do tend to commemorate shit. I don't know if it's terribly sentimental or what. If writing about birthdays makes for bad, cliched writing. I honestly have no idea how my writing reads these days.

It really is one of the most important things in my life.

Writing.

It is the hug I give to myself.

I need to give myself more hugs.