I’ve been lying down in my bed for the past twenty minutes. What
have I been doing? Mindlessly stroking my stuffed animal that I got for
Christmas when I was two years old. Let me tell you a little bit about Rudolph.
Besides having the most creative name in the universe (I was TWO),
Rudolph is a fucking champion. He’s survived his head getting ripped off and
sewn back on multiple times. His nose was ferociously torn away, swallowed and
then crapped out by the family dog (that shit-stained red nose wasn’t deemed
important enough to sew back on. Heartless.). My friends in college had
a freakin' phobia of poor Rudolph. Sure, the color in his pupils rubbed off
decades ago, leaving only yellowish, creepy-as-fuck slanted demon eyes, but he’s
a STUFFED ANIMAL, get over it. The weirdest thing about Rudolph, though, is
that he’s still around. I am twenty six years old. TWENTY SIX. I have lived in three countries,
four US states, gone to two colleges, and have had way too many jobs. Rudolph is always there. Not in a box or a closet.
He’s hanging out by my pillow, or sleeping bag, or mattress on the floor
(thankfully, now it’s a full-sized adult bed. Makin’ moves). Yes, I am approaching my late 20’s and I still
display my stuffed animal for the world to see, like a badge of honor… or
shame... I can’t tell. Sometimes I wonder whether or not some asshole psych
major has been dying to recruit me as a prime subject for a Freudian Complex
case study. But for some reason… I don’t think I’m alone. At least, not in my
desire for something comfortable and secure during a time of complete
uncertainty.
I’m not pointing out anything original or profound when I
say: This time of life is weird as hell. And I’m not sure if anything ever gets
clearer. I’m not settled, I don’t have any romantic prospects, I don’t WANT any
romantic prospects… and then I find myself joining online dating sites and chatting
with people who tell me I’m pretty so that I can boost my confused and
unsettled mid-20’s ego and then I never meet them in person anyway because I
remember that I don’t want to date. But I do? But I don’t. I don’t think…?
I haven’t been a crazy
college student in over four years, but just last week I was playing an
embarrassing game of beer pong, mixing way too many types of liquor, and
eventually puking my guts out. The night before that, I ate a classy dinner
with my roommate, had a glass of wine that cost an amount that would have sent
my college, beer-pong-playing self into a fainting spell, and went to sleep at
9pm. I often eat cereal for dinner. I
work from 9-5, 40 hours a week, and drive a car that I own the title to while
wearing business casual clothes. Some weeknights I stay up until 2am at a bar
living out my rockstar dreams and listening to other unbelievable rockstars
living out their dreams while clouds of smoke and guitar melodies remind us
that we’re all the same age and at the same spot in life, whether we’re 18 or
40. But then I go home and I’m 26 again, and I don’t know what the fuck is
happening.
At this age, it's not surprising that every weekend my Facebook newsfeed is
almost entirely made up of another 12 or so acquaintances getting married,
engaged, or announcing babies. Sometimes I feel jealous and single and
behind... then I realize that I'm wearing a moo-moo, doing yoga on a chair, and
watching action movies with three super cool dogs, and I'm like...nah, I'm cool
with this for another decade or four. But THEN, within a few days, I’m back to wondering…
should I be doing something different?
That’s
one of the reasons why, every so often, I spend time lying down and rubbing a stuffed reindeer. I’ve done it since before my brain was strong enough to make
memories, and it’s one of the most instinctual forms of comfort that I
know. The circular motion of feeling the totally unique, matted, clumpy texture
of Rudolph’s 24 year old fur is the DEFINITION of calm for me. But it’s not
acceptable to be using childhood comforts anymore, they say. Well, fuck 'em.
If
those 20 minutes of mindless calm can help me confidently say that it’s ok to
not settle into security until I want to settle into security, then I’m keeping
Rudolph around. If those 20 minutes keep me calm when every other aspect of my
life ISN’T calm, but a dynamic, shifting, confusing, painful, hilarious serious
of question marks, then I’m alright with it. Frankly, I’ll take the stuffed
animal mixed with the question marks than color-coordinated throw pillows to
match a settled life. The interesting part is… life never really becomes
settled. At least, I don’t think it will for me, or for many other people. I
know that someday, Rudolph will have to go. My calm will become my family. My
community. My kids. My something. Shit, maybe he’ll never go. But I’ll probably
still have nights when I stay out until sunrise playing music and drinking
beer, and I’ll probably still be confused as to what to do next and what life
is. The mid-20’s are difficult because we think the 30’s and 40’s and beyond
have their shit figured out, and we are scared as fuck to get there while simultaneously
drooling at the dreamy image of our put-together future selves. Don’t live with
that kind of pressure. Life isn’t meant to be figured out. It’s meant to be
lived, now, doing what you’re doing if you’re happy doing it and being aware of
unhappiness so you can work to change it. This whole rant started because I was
trying to define my motivations for not throwing this old rag of a reindeer
away. I think I’ll just be happy he’s here, and happy I’m here, right where I
am, at least for right now.
