100 days into the new decade.
30 days into sheltering-in-place.
And 6 days into another solar return.
I have to say, it’s been an interesting year so far.
Just over a month ago, I was in the final stages of vetting the most appropriate ways to celebrate my 36th year of life. I had planned a trip to my favorite Southern city, New Orleans (where, ironically, confirmed coronavirus cases and deaths are growing at rates we’ve seen in New York City). Then I had a couple of celebrations with the local tribe lined up upon my return home. Nothing fancy but all purposefully themed.
Then this shit. COVID-fucking-19.
Everything: canceled. No tipsy twerking in NOLA. No fancy cocktails on a rooftop in the city. No upstate getaway.
Just me, stuck here, in my little Bedstuy apartment.
As safety precautions and guidelines swiftly became mandates, I wondered how I was going commemorate making it over my mid-30s hump. Because the “big” countdown starts now, right? With the way this year has panned out, I’m honestly tempted to bypass the bullshit and just round up. No, not to 37; I’m going straight for 40.
Can I do that, though? Can I just start telling people I’m 40 years old?
I mean, of course I can. But damn… FORTY.
It’s such a grown ass age. It’s a bit intimidating if I fixate for too long. Really, who am I to be nearing such a prestigious age? Am I worthy? Am I actually getting… grown?
WTF is being “grown”, anyways?
4.4.20, solar return
When I was young, I imagined being a grown woman looked something like Thelma Lyles Gay, my mother, or like Clair Hanks Huxtable. Wait. Before you argue the extreme differences between The Cosby Show and my life in Oak Cliff, do understand that, in my four-year-old eyes, these women were one in the same: African American 30-somethings who managed their careers with as much success and grace as they had with their children and husbands in a home they owned, in a neighborhood they loved, all with damn near perfect style and poise… the kind of women little girls wanted to be when they grew up.
Now, it goes without saying; I am no Clair. And while I was gifted with some of my mommy’s best traits, I am definitely not the woman Thelma Louise was at 36.
I don’t have a fancy job (anymore). I am not a wife. I am not a mother. I do not own a home. My neighborhood is on the cusp of sketch. My style is that of a bohemian skater boy. And while wiser, my overall personality hasn’t changed much since college: I am still very much “your homeboy’s super cool homegirl who doesn’t say much but you can’t tell if she’s just shy or stuck up”. (It’s neither, by the way.)
If I were to hold a snapshot of who I am today against who my mom or Phylicia Rashad were to me 30 years ago, my request to be an official grown-up would be denied. According to divine deity we know as Beyonce, being a grown woman is simply having the ability to do whatever you please. While I am certain there’s more to it than merely that, I feel I am securing a promising path to grown-assness so far.
I hung up my corporate cleats, but I am now free to contribute and cultivate my skills beyond the confounds of a job title.
I am not a homeowner, but I plan on building my first with my own two hands.
I am not married, but I am experiencing some beautiful connections and learning valuable lessons while I wait.
I do not have children, but I am intentional in building a legacy they can carry forward.
I do love my friends. I do love my neighborhood. I do love my life. And I love that I am, in fact, doing exactly what I want.
Of course, my idea of “being grown” has evolved. As I live more life, or as life allows me to live, I’ve come to the new understanding of adulthood being less about age or experience and more of an acceptance of self, of responsibility and of one’s unique purpose in this lifetime.
As fine lines deepen, gray hairs increase to more than a few and my breasts and ass sit less at attention and more at ease, I find peace in the natural aging process my body is going through. Even more so do I find peace in growing, not into the woman I thought I wanted to be, but the woman I am meant to become.
So, with social-distanced toast, here’s to 36. I mean, 40.
May coronavirus miss me with the foolery, and may grown-assness be bestowed with abundance and grace.
Cheers.