Just cried at work while reading this article: 

http://www.rockymountainnews.com/news/2005/nov/11/final-salute/

The weekend was quiet, but not terribly so.
I babysat, went to Boulder, came back down, had brunch with Emily, did laundry, went for a walk, babysat, helped Jacob clean his house, babysat, went to dinner with Heidi and Val and then saw a movie, and then went back to Jacob’s to help him finish.

Saturday night, I brought Carlos with me to Jacob’s. He hates cars, he hates being carried, he hates his leash. I don’t know why I keep trying, but you absolutley cannot walk a cat. He won’t behave. He’ll try to escape. You’ll pick him up, and for your trouble, he’ll claw you.
You’ll be bleeding, from your chest and your knees, and you’ll have a squirming ball of angry black fur in your arms. And you’ll have to throw him into your car and slam the door and then watch him look at you with wide green eyes.

And that’s just the beginning.

We slept over, so of course, the litterbox was an issue. I’d brought a shoebox, but he didn’t have enough room to turn around and get comfortable, so we were woken up by the sounds of scratching in the litterbox and then a sad sounding meow.
This was repeated.

We leashed him and took him out. He was a street cat, of course he’ll know what to do.
Nope. Went under some bushes. And then tried to get under a fence into a construction site.

It appears I have much work to do. I wonder if we could join some doggy training classes at the Dumb Friend’s League.
I wonder if they’d judge me for trying to make my cat into a dog.

Alas, we arrived home safely. He was immediately quite happy to be back at home. (I think that every time we go somewhere he thinks that I might leave him or that we’re going to the vet, where he’ll have to have surgery or some other horrible procedure. I’m hoping that enough nice outings will reinforce the fact that I’m not leaving him, that I do love him, and that he’s stuck with me.)

I woke up this morning with him curled up in my arms. He, too, hates the alarm.

He’s been eating dog food lately. I wonder if it’s bad for his health. Last time Ely brought his golden down, Carlos was relcoated, and we just left the dog food in a container. I went into the kitchen the other day, and there was Carlos, crunching on dog food. Ely’s dog tries to eat Carlos’s wet food, so maybe pet foods are sort of interchangeable.

However, I’m hoping that soon we can get Carlos to get comfortable with the dog. This may prove to be an interesting situation, and honestly, I worry more about the dog than Carlos. He can hold his own. The dog, hwoever, has a sweet disposition and a curious nature. Carlos will eat him alive.

The answer?
Kitten mittens.

Tonight, I’m going to bribe him with wet food so he’s not upset when I go to Boulder.

I wonder at what point my formative years will end and the formidable ones will begin.

What did God get me for my birthday?
Renal failure.

Just kidding, but only sort of.
I spent all of yesterday in bed after a morning visit to the doctor revealed that I wasn’t going anywhere.
Today, I napped in my desk chair at work.
I’m dehydrated, achy, and worst of all, fiercely ill-tempered.

So far twenty-three isn’t that great.

But hey, I guess the only place to go is up!

Ely pointed out to me that men might find me intimidating.
He was hasty to add that he doesn’t.
Of course not, dear.

We’re at a concert, I’m pushing my way to the front, wiggling into the space at the bar, all the while talking to him about a man we’ve both met briefly and that we mutually despise. Maybe despise is a strong word.
I’m sure it sounded something like, “blah blah blah blah blah…and then he gave her this and that and then wrote this.”

That’s when he stops me. “You wonder why men find you intimidating? It’s because of that.” A romantic gesture? And I roll my eyes?

I was puzzled. He’s probably right.
But then again, I’ve never been subjected to romantic overtures.
After that weird first date back in high school, there were roses, and there was a CD of songs that reminded him of me on it. One of them was this song.
So that was awkward.
The string of bad attempts at love could go on, but to spare us all, I won’t.
So perhaps I’m jaded. Or inexperienced. Or just cynical.

I turn back to him. “I liked it when you made me waffles,” I say, as though that would be some sort of explanation. (I actually don’t like waffles. Don’t tell him. They’re good, just not something I go out of my way for.)

Later that night, we’re walking home. I say something rude. (In my defense, it wasn’t that rude; he has delicate ears.) “Again,” he says.
I’m incredulous. How is that intimidating?
He explains.
I argue.
(I begin to understand what he means, but that annoys me, so I argue more.)
We concede (or maybe I do and forget to tell him) that men are mostly moronic and “chivalrous” at all the wrong times, and there’s no reason I should have to conform to some lady-like ideal when we’re breaking gender barriers daily.

***
We’ll flash forward to last night.

I went up to Boulder to return his watch and retrieve my water bottle. (I’m glad that both of us seem to lose stuff. Or maybe his was an isolated incident.)

Last week, I was trying to be cute and I asked him to make me dinner someday. So he told me that if I went up to Boulder, he would.

I was thrown off my game. We cooked.
I am inept. We were going to bread tofu and I (I’m cringing even now as I replay this in my mind) pour the egg into the flour.
Uncle Mike White will appreciate how much I got made fun of over the next hour.
Constantly.
I was not born to cook.
He has a surprisingly snarky side.
I like it.

It’s rare that someone is completely un-readable, and yet he is, and I’m intrigued.
We’ve cobbled together a slow friendship based on the things we have in common (zero).
And I’m curious.
And that’s good.

There we were last night, sitting side by side in a sushi restaurant, contemplating the meaning of our twenties.

Is 23 your mid-twenties? Or are you lucky if you get to push that off until you’re 24? By 29, have you resigned yourself to the approach of 30?

I’m about to turn 23. I always thought that by 23, I’d be this successful, beautiful, somehow totally organized person. Obviously, that was some sort of pipe dream. Jacob laughed when I told him this. “I don’t feel any older,” he said. “Do I look older?”
“I still see all of us the same way I saw us when we were 17,” I told him. And that’s true. In my mind, somehow, I stopped aging at some point and am still 17. It happened previously around the age of 12, when I became aesthetically aware of myself for the first time. That sounds weird, but it was at that point that I became incredibly self-conscious about the way I appeared to other people.

And now, since I’m still battling the ravages of teenage acne and adjusting to the newly developed hips, I don’t feel glamorous or 23. I just feel like I’ve entered adolescence all over again. Navigating the adult world is much like navigating your freshman year of high school. Or even freshman year of college. It’s exciting, and it’s fun, but it’s also really scary, and at no point do you ever feel comfortable or adequate. But looking back, you realize if you’d just taken ten deep breaths and calmed the fuck down, you’d have been fine. Because you were fine.

It was all in your head.

Not to say that I’m not happy or infinitely more confident and secure than I was at 14. Even the last two years have brought about phenomenal personal and spiritual (and maybe even some intellectual) growth.

We were sitting next a lone woman, eating dinner and worrying about something showing up on her receipt. Business trip, I thought. She carried herself with a nervous air, as though this was the first time she’d found herself eating dinner alone in a strange city.
Next to her sat the woman who somehow doesn’t look like she belongs in Denver. Her feet clad in Christian Louboutins, her hat cocked just so to accentuate her styled blonde hair, her facial features swathed in soft layers of mkeup. But reeking of privilege and confidence. (Not that those have to fall together. But they might. And do.)
And there I sat. Feeling 22.

But then dinnner came and my fears were washed away as I realized that there are parts of me that surpass some 30 year olds.

Jacob and I spent the after dinner moments scribbling awkward drawings on the back of the receipts and I realized that I’d never give up my youth to masquerade as someone I’m not and will never be.

Maturity isn’t an outward characteristic, not something you can buy in 24 carat gold. (Ew, don’t ever buy me anything gold, thanks.) That posturing doesn’t show depth of character, or taste, or class. It shows that you’ve got money to burn (although I’d happily burn some for these). 

And so as we walked up the entrance ramp to the West deck of Cherry Creek mall discussing the disparity between doing what you love and doing what you have to do to survive, I felt secure.

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams, they say. I’m off, marching confidently onwards, it’s just too bad I have no idea where that is.

Beautiful day, beautiful mood.
Is there anything better?

My mouth is gin dry, my hair limp, my body sore, and my mind gorgeously foggy.
My attention span is zapped; my day smacks of endless repetition; I am content. (Every time I write a triadic sentence, I flash back to Mr. Hilbert’s classroom. I am 17 again. AP English is the bane of my existence. I’ll never forget Mary Hayes’ sentence:  He was grotesque; he was ugly; he was my prom date. – or something to that affect.)
These are the waning days of my youth, after all.

The night began with the procedures of self-preservation and ended with the tossing out of all best intentions, but doesn’t that describe the best nights?

Woke up surrounded by cloud-white sheets. Rolled over and groaned at the coming day.

Oddly fulfilled.

I also have some nasty dubstep playing. There is not enough RedBull in the world to contain me. Or to fuel my future.

Off to be productive, to produce, to hit the grind….whatever it is that the corporate world might be.

On a sidenote, my desk is a hand-me-down (obviously). It’s full of odds and ends, and they’re all perfect for someone with my small attention span. My current obsession? A stamp that simply says “Acknowledgement.” We are nearly paperless, although I find myself stamping things just so I can see the remnants of the 80s business mentality on paper. Acknowledgement.

It’s almost as good as the PostIt that said “Relocate.” Apparently I wrote it, although I’m not sure what for or why. I got into work one day, and there it was, sitting on my computer. “Relocate.” I was furious – they don’t want me? They don’t like me here and the subtle reminder was there. Relocate.
Turns out, I had set it there. Of course. It was a cute joke for awhile.

Love your day, love your life.

Also, I miss Carlos. Jacob has him. And they’re happy. I’m jealous.