"I'm 35." She said it with a mix of F-you confidence and I-dare-you-to-disrespect-me sass, then nodded her head and repeated, "I'm 35." Seven years later, it's slightly embarassing to remember it, but at that moment, I want to be her and fuck her and I don't even know what else. I do know that I really wanted to be 35 at that moment.
I met my friend Rachel seven years ago at a dinner party. It was one of those typical Brooklyn gatherings where too many people for the room squish onto thrift-store couches and the floor, eating overflowing plates of incredible food -- except for that one weird tempeh dish. Of course I don't remember exactly now what we talked about, but knowing us, the topics were probably about food, sex, gossip about who was sleeping together that week, and what they ate after they slept together, with a little tiny bit of politics sprinkled in.
At some point in all of this tomfoolery, Rachel suddenly interuppted, "Wait. How old are all of you, anyway?" As we went around the room revealing our ages, I was feeling a bit self-concious at being one of the oldest in the room at the grand-old age of 28. (I know, I told you this story was a bit embarassing. Okay, it's a lot embarassing. That's sort of the point.) And when we had all put our cards on the table, Rachel finished by smugly, confidently, shit-eatingly announcing that she was years older than even the oldest of the rest of us. Yup. We got schooled.
I so wanted what she had. I wanted that confidence and that self-knowledge. I wanted the ability to really not care. I wanted to not be in the head-swirling confusion of my 20s anymore.
And now I'm here. I'm 35. And this is the present I'm giving myself. I'm giving myself this blog and permission to be exactly who I am.
See, far too many times I don't do something because I have this bizarre perfectionist idea of what it should be. I can vividly hear all those ankle-biting critics and what they'll say, and I don't want to feed the trolls with anything that they might be able to latch onto. If I could ever write a totally honest resume, the top item on my list of skills would have to be "Telling myself all the expectations others have of you, and convincing myself why I'll never meet those expectations." It's why, even though I love to write and I love to cook, I don't have a food blog. I'm not straight enough or pretty enough. I haven't learned to use my camera well enough yet. I've got too many other things going on this week to get the writing to sound the way I want it to. I don't cook in a focused way so I'll never gain a dedicated audience. No one wants to know what I really eat on a daily basis.
But we're talking about a gift, right. A gift for myself. I give myself permission to hear all those critics and then throw them in the trash. I give myself the ability to speak in self-helpisms like "You are exactly who you need to be" and "People will love you for you, not for who you might pretend to be." I give myself the freedom to write here, and not have it need to make an impact, or gain page views immediately, or be beloved by anyone but me. I give myself the freedom to just be myself, my 35-year-old self.
So who am I? I'm someone who loves food, and who especially loves feeding other people. I'm someone who fiercely cares for my friends and loved ones like a mama tiger, but I'm confused about whether I want to have kids. My family's all from Houston, but I've lived in Brooklyn longer than anywhere else. I cook the ridiculously indulgent foods of Texans and the vegetable-focused foods of Brooklyn health-niks. I'm a queer woman married to a man. I'm happiest in the swirl of people eating and laughing. And I'm 35.
