Monday night found me six cookies in, hair plastered to my face, mascara smeared across my white pillowcases, a
maybe definitely too-full wine glass on my bedside table and a fervid desire to make like Jennifer Garner and go from 22 to 30 overnight. I had a long day at work only to come home to an email letting me know that I did not get my dream position at my dream publication that I had interviewed for a few weeks prior. I was as aforementioned depiction suggests completely devastated.
Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to speed up time and skip all of this instability and insecurity and ramen. I wanted to be thirty, flirty and thriving. I wanted a career and a husband and an apartment that didn’t perpetually smell like socks. I was ready and willing to give up the reaming years of my youth for a mortgage and all because I didn’t get the job that I was so sure was about to change my life.
It didn’t really hit me until I was mid-conversation with my best friend of eight years–me sobbing, her soothing, as usual–that the last thing in the world I was ready to be was 30. If this is how I handled a fairly moderate setback, then I have a lot to learn in the next seven years. And as we reminisced about the past, I realized that as fondly as we talked about high school and now college, we would someday (probably sooner that we think) be talking about these times with the same tender endearment. Nostalgia has a wonderful way of bringing fourth the good while letting the bad fall to the wayside, like stars piercing through an otherwise dark black sky. We remember so clearly the good things, even the good that we couldn’t appreciate or process at the time.
Time has a way of putting everything in a context, and the bad is never ever as bad as we understand it be in the moment.