Thursday, May 23, 2013

'Tis The Time To Be Confused

I read somewhere on the internet that the mid-twenties is the time to be confused. So I obliged. Over the past six months, I have embarked on this wonderful journey of self-inflicted confusion, and to date, I have no idea what's going to come out at the other end. Truth be told, I don't really want to know, as I was led to believe that it is all part of the fun. Still, the restrained, less carefree, more uptight version of me cannot help but wonder if this is really worth all the invested time and effort.

And just as she is wondering that, I hear an echo in the distance. Maybe it's real. Maybe I'm making it up. Straight ahead, piercing through the mist and fog, I see dark silhouettes walking towards me, pointing their index fingers at me. ("Could this be the zombie apocalypse?") And they're whispering, words I swear I've heard somewhere before, words I don't want to hear, at least not right now. But they keep going at it, with their robotic tone of pity mixed with a little bit of mockery. "Go find yourself a nice boy, pretty child. Date him. Kiss him. Get him to marry you. Then, once you've done that, open yourself to the tiny miracles of unprotected sex. You do that my love, and we promise you'll find the happiness you've been searching for all along." And then they're gone. Along with my chance of ever finding happiness like they do on 90210, apparently.

But then I start to think of all the other things that could, and have, made me happy throughout the years, and suddenly it doesn't seem so bad. Suddenly, confusion seems like the only legit option. I think of the heavy backpack carrying itself to that rock music festival as we slept in undersized tents under the stars, the email received unexpectedly on the second day of May, after months of waiting, telling you that you are good enough, that things always happen the way they're supposed to and not necessarily as you would have wanted them to. I think of the city that felt like home even though there wasn't an actual home to go back to, the strangers who smiled, reassuringly, almost as if they knew something significant was up. And now I remember looking up at the night sky, tears in my eyes and Joshua Radin's The Greenest Grass playing in my ears, and for the umpteenth time this year, I felt confused, because you're allowed to be confused when you're twenty-four. I was confused but I was also happy. You got that? I was happy, you barbaric narcissistic zombies. I was happy. I did not feel it, I've been numb for too long, but I knew that I was.

So yes, I know I may not have it all figured out just yet, and I know I'm not exactly following the convention here, but I will, eventually. And when I do, it'll be because I'm ready. When I do, it'll feel right. When I do, it'll probably be because I've run out of adventures that take my breath away. Till then, I'm sorry, but I would much rather be confused. Because in the end, being confused can only mean one thing, that you care enough about something worth being confused about.