The Quarter Life Crisis

Okay, so there's really not a quarter life crisis.

But I've been joking about it all month - I couldn't resist putting it in here too.

Maybe it's just a family joke: If you know me well, sooner or later, I'll tell you that I'm going to live to be a hundred. I sound like I'm joking, but I'm really joking the way that Karou jokes with her art school classmates in Daughter of Smoke & Bone. As in, the tone is right, but the words are true.

I seriously am shooting for a hundred. A century sounds awesome. I'll be like Beverly Cleary (95), sharp as a tack - no, sharp as a freaking samurai sword, and lording over her legacy with deft skill of master-craftswoman. *daydreams*

What?! It could happen! Three of my great-grandmothers lived well into their nineties.

If you look up centenarian on Wikipedia, this is the picture that comes up.

I'm seriously not kidding about that. Her name was Muriel Duckworth. She was Canadian. I hope, on my 100th birthday in 2086, I remember to wear a color that brings out my eyes.

WOW, what a tangent.

I turned twenty-five this week. Hence, the Quarter Life Crisis joke.

(Sadly, jokes are never as funny if you have to explain them, which I have done above. Le sigh.)

But okay, I am still halfway to thirty. - Well, as my friend's fiance pointed out, it's technically halfway to fifty. But I'm not going to think about that.

If I wasn't happy about things, I could have had a mid-twenties crisis. I could whine about how I'm not doing anything with my life. How I'm not where I want to be. How I really want to be doing X, Y, and Z. I could be miserable.

But as you'll notice, I'm not.

I'm actually really grateful. Instead of feeling anxious on my twenty-fifth birthday, I felt all giggly. I'm talking little girl giddiness. Like Christmas Day, how-fast-can-I-open-these-presents joy.

You know what Sandra Cisneros says in her short story, "Eleven," about birthdays?

What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

I've talked about being a writer since I was five.

Five-year-old Shelby and twenty-year-old Shelby, thirteen, and twelve, and eleven year old Shelby, and all of the other Shelbys underneath -- they're all rather pleased with twenty-five-year old Shelby. Proud of me even.

Because all of them know that by the time I reach twenty-six, I will be able to hold my book in my hand. And turn the pages. And give it to people. And put it on a shelf in my house and see my own name facing out at me - every single day.

(Wow, apparently I'm kinda proud of twenty-five-year-old Shelby too. :-P)

Anyway, I spend a fair amount of time in panic, freak-out mode. Like - OMG, revision deadline! OMG, synopsis time! OMG, copyedits!!! Copyedits in the three days!!!! There's stress in this business, most of it self-inflicted.

But despite how I feel sometimes, I'm exactly where I wanted to be. This is what I've dreamed about for pretty much as long as I could remember. If I could go back in time and meet my younger self, the five-year-old Shelby would think I was cool. How many people can say that?

According to five-year-old Shelby, I'm a success. And that's actually not such a bad measure of success.

I think I'll keep it around for the day I turn thirty.

Of course, I thought a lot of things were cool circa age 5. I present exhibit A:

This may actually be four year old Shelby.
But it's clear from this pic that I've always been a lady of taste.
Tigger, for instance, TOTALLY goes with this outfit.

The Cake Conspiracy

This was the weekend of birthdays (none of them mine).

Included were: a dozen cupcakes, one happy hour party, one birthday dinner, one sleepover, one birthday girl, one birthday boy, several movies, and two cakes.

Here is a picture of the second birthday cake:

It turned out exactly like it was supposed to - like a black and white cookie. I must congratulate MG on a very fine cake. My only contribution was moral support.

Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures of the first cake. It was consumed too quickly. I can tell you it was slightly lopsided, and I can tell you its story:

Once upon a time, MG, bday girl, bday boy, and I were cruising the grocery store's cake section before our sleepover and debating the many flavors of yellow cake, which is the bday boy's favorite. MG, bday boy, and I noticed bday girl's attraction to a certain Rainbow Funfetti mix, but when asked, bday girl adamently denied needing a cake of her own, especially since she had a great many cupcakes to consume.

Unbenownst to her, the conspiracy had begun.

Bday boy snuck the funfetti mix into the cart. I distracted the bday girl at the checkout. When the bday mentioned the funfetti cake not once but several times on the walk home, we all became very quiet and exchanged meaningful glances. At the apartment, MG mixed the batter in a darkened kitchen while the bday boy and I made sure the bday girl stayed on the couch, watching movies rather than helping.

There was a very close call when MG called me to the kitchen to check if the cake was done, and the bday girl was up and running before I even moved. But the bday girl was lured back to the couch so that the funfetti cake could be iced. The "23" candles were lit; the funfetti cake presented, and....

...the bday girl had a splendidly happy birthday.

(I love it when people do nice things for other people.)