So goes life... That is to say, I turned 26 on February 2. Shit piss and corruption, as Greg would say.
I don't know why I have such a problem with the number 26, but it's much, much more depressing than 25. Perhaps it is because I'm having serious flashbacks to 16 year-old Courtney who was totally, 100% sure that 26 year-old Courtney would have a semi-glamorous (heroin problem), totally rock 'n' roll (living in a studio), fantastically foreign (Newark) life.
In all seriousness, I did think that 26 year-old me would have her shit together. After all, I'm still unemployed (though this may change soon!) and living at home. I feel like I've thoroughly disappointed my old self (or my young self, as the case may be) and that I should be doing more to please her. Like dying my hair purple again with Manic Panic that I bought from Hot Topic for $12.99. Or piercing my own nipples with a darning needle, an ice cube, and some rubbing alcohol again. Or something rebellious and badass. I am planning on having a good time tonight. I've gathered some very fantastic and much-loved friends to hit up the B&G Bar and Lounge in South Windsor. Perhaps Connecticut's finest drinking establishment (rivaled only by The Free Spirit), I'm excited for an evening of dive-bar-based entertainment and good company at the Barf & Gag. All are welcome, and we'll be convening at the strangely bowling alley-scented watering hole around 9.
One thing I sincerely hope my former self is good with is all my lovely friends. I do have a bunch of truly great friends that I wouldn't trade my lack of heroin addiction for. Honestly, my current hang-up on heroin aside, my friends are amazing, interesting, bizarre people who are all totally different from one another that I'm sometimes entertained simply by the spectrum of folks I've managed to gather around me. I'm excited for introductions tonight, many have never met, and I hope sixteen-year-old Courtney has a good time, too. Purple hair or no.
What would I think of me, though? Honestly, I'm a little heavier than I was at 16, have considerably longer hair, and much bigger boobs, but other than that, I think I still look like me. Would I have recognized myself walking down the street? And what the fuck happened to my shared dream of starting an all-chick punk band called The Lost Boys who would act like the Libertines (c. 2001) and have vocabularies that would make Lenny Bruce blush? I hate to say it, but when I was 16, I was damn sure that 26 was middle aged. I'm in a sad state according to younger me. Living at home, still unsure of what I'm going to do with myself, and not even married to one of The Strokes! Ugh. The shame of it all.
But when I boil it down, the decade that has come and gone is worse than a blur. It's like watching blood go down the drain when you nick your ankle shaving. "Whoops, there it... went," you think, trying to stem the flow. I have a poor memory for events and people, anyway. Random, useless, and obscure facts, I'm all over like white on rice. But the meaningful events? The people who should have always occupied more of my mind? I have vague recollections. I keep hoping that, like my grandmother, I will achieve a maximum capacity memory when older and fill in the gaps. (Then again, I think she made most of it up. In fact, she once told me she did.) At any rate, while I unconditionally adore all of those around me, I have trouble placing memories on a timeline, or separating one experience from a million others. It has been a fruitful, often exciting, sometimes sad, rarely average decade, and if you asked me to repeat experiences, I'd be at a loss. I've been to many parts of Europe, graduated high school and college, lived in London, fallen in and out of love, gotten my MA, seen musicians and artists, spoken with personal heroes, laughed loads, and gotten (and lost) my first "real" job. I was an archery instructor at a day camp, I kissed girls and boys alike, picked up the pieces of friends' broken hearts, and let my shatter in front of them. I've lost three grandparents, two dogs, and four cats. I got a tattoo, regretted it, and loved it again. I went on accidental dates, and finally let go of old prejudices enough to start dating a guy I find fantastic. I've discovered things that I didn't know were possible in myself and others, and I've learned that not everyone finds me as engaging as I find myself. (That's sometimes a tough discovery...)
I never kept a journal or diary (at least not for more than one or two entries), but friends, like Tanya, did. Her logs of our high-jinx are both unbelievable, entertaining, and like those of a million other teenagers. I'm glad she's got them for all of us to relive, particularly given my lack of memory.
All the same, I doubt my sixteen year old self would approve. Why didn't I stay in London, where I was happiest? Why didn't I travel more when I had the money? And why, for the love of GOD, am I still not married to a member of The Strokes? I feel like Courtney at 16 was considerably cooler, much more hardened to the world, and a complete idiot. Who wasn't an idiot at 16? I do, on some level, kind of hate myself because she sooooo would not have hung out with me. Then again, it'd be pretty creepy if I were socializing with 16 year-olds at my age.
Artwork from NatalieDee.com. She's the bee's knees.
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