I turned 21 two weeks ago. I wish I could say that it was Instagram Top Page worthy -- you know, the cute girls in a dark club wearing those plastic glowing necklaces, with a drink in their hands, smiling with their eyes shut, flinging their hair super sexily all over the place. But it wasn't. I, apparently, spent most of it puking.
I don't remember most of it, if I'm being honest. And the next day, my stomach wanted to remind me what I did -- time after time after time after time.... you get the point.
But now I'm "freshly 21," as the bartender at the baseball game told me, and I'm still revelling in the fact that people want to see my ID.
"Yes!" I'll shriek at the waitress/casino guard/bartender/any poor soul who asks if I'm 21. I'll whip out my wallet with gusto, pull out that tiny Rectangular Card of Validation, and thrust it into the face of the bored civilian, puffing out my chest as if I'm saying, "Yeah, go ahead. Tilt that bad boy around and see the shiny plastic layer on top. That's the real deal. I'm a grownup, B*tch."
But how long will this excitement last? Will I remain a "cute" short girl my whole life? Into my 40s? Lugging my caravan of children around? Getting ID'd no matter where I go? Bars? Casinos? Car Rentals????? Will I ever peak adulthood??????? Will I ever become a real person!?!??!
From what I've read in listicle* after listicle on Cosmo and Buzzfeed, 20-somethings are a glorified, manic pixie dream. Everyone seems to romanticize the I-Have-No-Money-Or-Food-Or-Stable-Job-Or-Relationship-But-Life-Is-Great that I see in almost every "indie**" flick nowadays. But I don't want to be there. The unknown terrifies me. Not knowing if I'll have an income, terrifies me. I need money! I was raised in a generation where we're seen as gluttonous, self-obsessed tyrants, but yet everyone hounds into us how we need to Save! Save! Save! and everything is so expensive. So how much of our money, is really benefitting the economy, right? When I need to pick up student loans for my grad degree, after my parents so wonderfully, amazingly, supportively, adverbially, paid for my undergrad, I don't see myself going out and spending all this cash that would qualify me as gluttonous, self-obsessed, tyrannical, etc.
Where am I going with this? I don't know.
I feel older. I started this blog when I was a pimply, hormonal, confused 16-year-old thumping away on my Peptobismal painted Dell laptop. When the most horrifying thing to happen to me was a B on a paper.
I could include a boring anecdote here about how I've grown over the years, mentally, emotionally, academically, how I've really stapled down my "writer's voice" and how I have a vague idea what The Future holds behind its thin curtain. But I won't. Cause... ehhhhh. Do you care? Does anyone care?
I find myself to be quite self-deprecating. I'm working on it. I used to take compliments and put them in my back pocket and let them warm the soul, happy that someone thought I was Nice/Funny/Kind/Smart/Energetic/Blah blah blah bleeeeehhhhhh. Now I shy away from them as if they're a poisonous, foot long, tarantula, baring it's blood-coated fangs at me about to tear my flesh from my body. Too visual? This is coming from the aracnaphobe, mind you.
I'm so afraid of rejection. So, so, so afraid of rejection. I can't handle "mean." Mean is such multilayered definition -- and I'm terrified of every oniony layer. I don't know when I reached this stage. I was a child actor, goddammit. I was faced with rejection since I was a tiny baby in some hospital commercial. I was the envy of all the other child actor babies. And then I went on to be the cute-faced, musical theater toddler, singing songs and shuffle-ball-changing my way around the world, as if this was gonna last forever.
Then I hit puberty and hoooorrrrrmoooones. I've always been a ??????????????? person. What that means is I know a lot but not really. I can memorize vocab definitions as if I'm the Lebron of vocabulary. I can analyze the sh*t out of any short story and probably find some other literary device that is woven so deep within the binding, that it probably doesn't even exist, but I'm so confident, you'll believe me. But when it comes to me... Abby.... I'm a big case of ????????????.
I change what I like at an almost constant rate. People, food, music, clothes, hobbies, perfume scents. I see this as extremely selfish. I'm working on it. But because of this, I find myself thinking I'm not good enough. Why don't you know what you want to do, Abby? Why aren't you a better writer, Abby? Why don't you know more about film, Abby? Why do you suck, Abby? Why even attempt to have a brighter future, Abby? Stop, Abby!!! You're the worst, Abby! BOOOOOO, ABBY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I put on this front of Hell Yeah, Confident Girl, but in reality, I'm just as big of a mess as the next college-aged person. I love this. I love when you say this to An Adult, and they say, "Oh, of course," as they tilt their head to the side and give a close-lipped smile. "No one knows what they want to do at this age!" BUT YET, we have very important life decisions to make?! And when we don't know what to do, we're humiliated for it and called gluttonous, self-obsessed tyrants!? Who made these rules?
I'm just happy I'm not from Belgium and have to make these decisions in 7th grade. ***
I'm working on a new positive outlook. I'm scrubbing away the negativity -- no more talking smack, no more critiquing random people on the street, no more Tumblr Social Justice. I don't care. Why do I care? This is me. This is Abby.
During my time in London, I had a loooooooot of time to think about me and life and choices and growing up. I realized that I need to stop living in the outline of a "20-Something." I need to live as just me.
I read Amy Poehler's Yes Please and it was an amazing, funny, beautifully crafted look into life from someone who worked and worked to be where she is. I have so much respect for Amy and look to her for inspiration time and time again. I want to be a perfect embodiment of Real Amy and Leslie Knope -- who in turn, I think, carries a lot more Amy then I think she realizes.
Anyways. Amy talked a lot about coming to terms with yourself -- your currency. She says,
I had already made a decision early on that I would be a plain girl with tons of personality, and accepting it made everything a lot easier. If you are lucky, there is a moment in your life when you have some say as to what your currency is going to be. I decided early on it was not going to be my looks..... Decide what your currency is early. Let go of what you will never have. People who do this are happier and sexier, (Yes Please, pg. 20-21.)
This hit me like a freight train on fire. Like my hobbies and perfume preference, I change Abby Preference a lot, too. I went through my Skater Girl Phase, circa 2009. I went through my Internet Geek Girl Phase, circa 2011. I went through my Grunge Phase, circa 2014. Those phases, mixed in with my hobbies and likes and dislikes form a giant soupy, sludgy pot of self-esteem issues.
I don't want to say I'm ugly... mostly because that's going to come off as a cry of attention. But, also because I look exactly like my mother, but I find her beautiful and womanly, where I find myself just... belchhhhh. Some may say it's because my relationship with the male gender is so confusing and weird and always ends up with me not feeling like enough because The Boy Is Bored and moves onto to another girl.... it's almost non-existant.
But I say, because it was up until... oh, I don't know, maybe, April? I had no idea who I was. I still am piecing together me, but I'm getting there. I've finally accepted that I'm never going to be an Instagram Model... a Really Pretty Person. I will never, ever, be able to put that perfect selfie up, with dewy, glowing, sun-kissed skin, with perfect, pink, perky lips, stomach so tight you can have a full dinner spread on it, and booty so firm, shorts look like they were made to be worn by dat ass.
It's just not me. I was made with curves on curves, and not those size 00 curves. I have like, a normal Kim Kardashian body.
I'm strive for comedy. I love to make people laugh. I can't do serious. Working for a news station, I think, maybe, I'd want to pursue a journalism career. Nope. Too many dying dogs, too many house fires, too many sad, serious things.
I love music, but I'm no where talented enough to be successful in it. I love to sing, but I know there are millions of talented girls who will be the Next Broadway Star, and it won't be Abigail Stubenbort.
I love makeup and hair stuff, but refer back to Really Pretty Person. I will never be the prime candidate for Beauty Gurus.
So where does that leave me? I love to make videos. I love to write (but ONLY when I want to write.) I love to read, but go through phases with binge reading.
I'm like pieces of Old Abby and New Abby being glued together, like a beautiful Abby Mosaic. I am brought to life by the mistakes Old Abby made, with knowledge New Abby posesses. I am a cultimation of Old Abby's failed endeavours with New Abby's Life Perspective. I am me. I am put together carefully and strategically, so that when the right light hits, I glow. I am a mosaic.
I want to be This Abby that Current Abby visualises -- someone who is happy and successful and loves life and everything around her. I'm working on that during my ascent into the 20-somethings.
I have so much more to learn and do and I want to creatively express myself more. I want to stop thinking of What Ifs and squish myself into the outline of someone else. I want to be that successful person, while creating things that will inspire my little cousins who watch my videos. I want to be their idol.
Hello, welcome to my blog. My name is Abby.
A
* List article. Listicle.
**Are indie flicks even real? now that then Indie is In? What qualifies as "indie?"
*** We had a foreign Exchange student my senior year of high school. He said he had to pick what he wanted to do FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE in 7th grade. I still cry for those poor children. Hope ya picked the right one, you prepubescent babies.
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