14 days until 30

I hate how histrionic I'm getting about turning 30.

It's like I've turned into a parody of myself somehow. I want to just let it slide on by, just another number, but instead any time that number even nudges itself into my peripheral vision, I grab onto it. I make bad jokes about all the things I'm no longer allowed to do as of two weeks from now and about turning 20. I declare "We don't speak of the 30!" to my younger friends. I'm sure I must seem insufferable to my older friends, like those university students on the bus who bemoan their upcoming 20th birthday.

For an (almost) psychologist, I have some mighty pitiful defence mechanisms.

I think it is really the forced reflection that I'm reacting to more than anything. It's like whenever we ring in another decade, there are countless fluff pieces and televised countdowns about the true theme of the 90s was or what the 2000s mean to you. I feel as though this strange symbolism of 3650 days (give or take for leap years, I suppose) is trying to peg me into summing up my 20s somehow. Turning 20, though still surreal, was easier, because so much happens those ten years before, you can't help but feel kind of accomplished.

When I look back to my 20s, my first flash is "Holy Christ, I spent all of my 20s in school." This is, truthfully, an amazingly one-dimensional way of looking at the past ten years. True, I did spend almost all of my 20s in school, except for that 12 month break between 21 and 22 where I worked two jobs and focused all my attention on getting back into school.

But, lest I get into one of those "let me list everything that was awesome about the past ten years" kind of posts, there genuinely has been loads of other stuff going on behind the research papers, unpaid practica and numerous moves. Even just a few days ago, on an incredibly mundane Wednesday evening with the cold seeping into the crack between my sleeve and mittens, as station wagons drove by, I had one of those surreal moments of gratitude for my life, as cyclonic as it may feel lately. I'm loved and I do what I love, after all.

So why the hell am I letting two little digits even try to shake me?

In which Facebook ruins my teenage crushes

I realized the other day that I know the current whereabouts of the majority of the guys I've ever dated or had a serious crush on.

There's something a little underwhelming about the reality of this.

There was that point, sometime after leaving my home town, where, in the midst of a big city where I knew such a minuscule fraction of its inhabitants, I would wonder "whatever happened to so and so" and if I would ever run into them on a random street corner again.

(Of course, the only one that this ever happened with was The Worst Boyfriend Ever.)

Then Facebook happened, and they all stopped being mysteries.

This really hit me when, one random recent Saturday morning, I received an email informing me that Russ had added me as a friend on Facebook.

Russ' and I's history can be summed up quite simply. I'd met him a few times. We never had much of a conversation, but he made it clear whenever we met that he thought I was hot. I had recently broke up with a long-term boyfriend, so I called him. We made out on a handful of occasions, and maybe went out on a date or two. He got annoyed when he discovered that my "I'm-not-looking-for-a-relationship" did not mean "I'm-looking-for-no-strings-attached-sex", and we quickly faded out, relegated to obligatory nods if we ran into each other to make it clear there were no hard feelings. I honestly never knew much beyond what movies he liked.

Yet, 10 years later, he adds me on Facebook. I'd noticed him on it before, but never saw much of a point of contacting him. What, exactly, would we have to say? Remember that time we made out during Sleepy Hollow? Or the one time we had coffee? Still, out of sheer curiosity, I accepted, wondering his motivations-- of which there seemed to be none. I said hi. He said hi. That was pretty much it.

Now, as it it wasn't odd enough that I know what my high school boyfriends are doing with their lives, I even know what the guy I made out with in college is doing on Friday night (apparently having a BBQ, if you were wondering).

Crushes who nothing ever actually happened with are even more surreal. It seems that when things never really developed the way you'd hoped with a certain person, or when your relationship with them never had a messy end point, you always wonder if they were really that special. And what Facebook has shown me is that, while they may vary on where they end up in life, they are all just so tortuously real.

I remember when I received notification that the guy I fiercely crushed on for the entirety of my 13th year had added me. He was the older boy who teased me mercilessly in the way that only heartbreaking 17 year old boys can, by throwing me into the lake with my clothes on and tango dancing with me in the middle of the street. He had brown hair that always flopped into his blue eyes. He was just so achingly dreamy. I eagerly clicked on his profile, to see what had become of him, more than ten years later. And while he hadn't necessarily changed... he was just so painfully average. Sure, he wasn't ugly, he seemed to be happy and he didn't communicate solely in text speak... but he just wasn't as magically special as I recalled. And he couldn't help but lose a little of that shine in my memories.

Sure, there are advantages to all of this. I'm not gonna lie and say I didn't feel a tinge of smugness when I discovered the lying guy who crushed my heart at 16 gained about 100 pounds. I've also gotten back in touch with many a lost friend, including exes or ex-crushes who are genuinely good people I'm happy to see. Still, I can't help but wonder if there was something to be said about certain people remaining a bit of a mystery.

Spinning around to reach full circle

Call it coming full circle or something.

I opened up my computer, deciding again to write. I then looked at that plane shaped icon on the monitor in front of me, to find I am once again hovering over Lake Michigan, 37,000 feet this time. And Wild World started playing in my ears once again.

And my head is all muddled.

Perhaps I expected these trips to help resolve all this uncertainty, this stomach tightening ambiguity that makes what used to be statements suddenly become punctuated with huge bold question marks. But there was no real epiphany. None of those movie-perfect revelations in it all becomes clear, that this is where I’m supposed to be.

I briefly thought I might have found it in one city, navigating through deliciously pulsating neighbourhoods. As I tend to do when I develop a crush on a city, I began the detailed process of imagining myself living on the 5^th floor of a specific building and deciding where I would shop for groceries. It didn’t hurt that the placement I was interviewing for looked absolutely dreamy on paper. But it wasn’t so swoonworthy in the pain in the ass world we call reality. It felt overly competitive, painfully bureaucratic, yet hypocritically disorganized.

And then the programs that made me especially giddy are in cities without that spark. One is a city I already spent a handful of years in, which, though convenient and reasonably effortless, seems devoid of any sense of adventure. And one is just really damn cold.

So, while there is clearly some indication of the right direction to go, I kind of hoped I wouldn’t have to go through that painful formalized step-by-step decision making process. I wanted to just know.

Really, though, this is such a silly debate this is to be having with myself. I still could end up at any of them, and I could make my own little life there for a year. I would learn immense amounts from any of them, and it would still be a pretty epic success to end up at any of them. And, after all, it is just a year.

I think I need to come to terms that major life choices don't operate like the quintessential lightbulb above the head. They are never so clear and instantaneous. Real life doesn't operate by love-at-first-sight rules.

Confidentiality

There are many oddities associated with being an (almost) psychologist.

The responsibilities are tremendous. Not only are you expected to have an eye on the people you treat and their lives outside your one hour a week, but you also have an assumed responsibility to the people around them. There is an assumed almost psychical power to what we do, as though we are to be able to predict with utter certainty what our clients might do. The consequences for mistakes in either way, overestimation or underestimation of risk, are devastating.

Your job title also carries a lot of weight in your every day interactions. People look for the signs that you are secretly reading them. They ask you for advice, be it at a dinner party or in a bar, leaving you wondering if plumbers are approached by their drunk friends with frantic requests for advice on a rusty drain. 

You are also expected by some to have a certain infallibility to you. It is assumed that in order to be a psychologist, your personal life must be thoroughly in order. (I have many times beat myself up by believing that ridiculous stereotype.) You worry about being seen by your clients in a non-professional environments, and the effect that might have on their image of you. I once found out I was at a beer gardens, in a tank top and shorts, at the very same Canada Day celebrations as a client. I was extremely thankful for the lack of paths crossing that day.

One of the most underestimated responsibilities, though, is that of confidentiality.

I take confidentiality very seriously. I view it as fundamental to what I do, and as something I cannot compromise. Sadly, there are a few of my peers who are a little more lax in their interpretation of the term.

It is an odd quirk of the job to have to hold a lot of charged information in your own head. My own capacities in being able to handle this weight have increased a lot since I've begun training, to the point where I am reasonable proficient at being able to leave it behind when I walk in the front door of my apartment.

Still, I do work in a forensic setting, which often makes for a lot of heavy information being thrown my way, from trauma to violence to insane tragedy. In all honesty, I never believed I'd have the capacity to do this kind of work, and I sometimes sit back and reflect on the fact that I am much stronger than I gave myself credit for. 

I've worked in this particular job for over a year and a half now, and still some friends don't know about it, because I choose not to speak about it very much. People are a little greedy for details, and I don't blame them, because it is fascinating stuff, especially in this era of criminal fascination, of multiple CSIs and talk of criminal profiling. I can't give them these details, though, just a generic job description and vague generalities, no matter how many good party stories I may have floating around in my head. It's just something I have to be black and white about.

Still, some days, it is a lot to take in. Some days, the details of it all just dawn on me. And in those times, I just have to do a lot of thinking. Because (although I can always talk to others at my workplace) keeping quiet is just a part of the package deal I signed up for when I decided to take this path.

Matrimony madness

Psst... don't forget to enter my Christmas contest! Good music = happiness. For reals.

***

Perhaps by virtue of our Canadian and career-ist nature, the bulk of my friends did not rush into wedded bliss right after high school. Sure, there was the one couple who married essentially when the clock struck 12 on his 18th birthday (did I mention that I took his french kissing virginity behind the portable in high school? Oooooh yeah!), and there have been a few weddings trickling in every summer.

... until now.

Somehow, as my official entrance to my late 20s rapidly approaches (one week, but who's counting? And am I right in considering 27 the official transition from mid- to -late 20s? Or am I the only neurotic who parses things up so precisely?)  (And how many brackets can I use in one post?), there has been a veritable explosion of weddings in my close friend network. At a recent gathering, one friend and I looked around, and suddenly realized we'd became the minority in a real hurry.

Now, to be fair, I realize that as a cohabitator, I don't get nearly the amount of flack as my single counterparts do. But, still, bear with me on this one.

One of my best friends in the whole wide world is getting married, and, as such, I find myself playing bridesmaid for the first time. Tonight was the first of my maidly duties before her big day-- a year and a half away. The Duke was shocked when he heard that the tasks were starting so early. I told him he didn't know the half of the fierce bridal competition in this city.

However, my friend has a particular challenge in her planning-- a very Italian set of in-laws, which means a hugely elaborate ceremony and a 7 course meal to her most distant of relatives, all to the tune of fifty thousand plus. 

So, this evening, the bride, her future mother-in-law, another bridesmaid and I made our way to a potential wedding venue. As we walked up the stairs, the other bridesmaid, who is getting married this summer, pulled out two pages of questions. And I realized all I could think of to ask was "How much does it cost?" and "Do we have to clean it?"

I was confronted with all sorts of minute details I had never considered. 

Are chair coverings included?

What about liability insurance?

When can the caterers come in?

Are open flamed candles allowed? 

Are any particular decorating companies banned? (One of my only questions was "What on earth can a decorating company do to get banned?")

As they discussed the area behind the head table, the hostess spoke about the type of drapes usually hung there, and the other girls giggled at my cluelessness over the lingo.

The two brides-to-be spoke of a wedding show, and how there was a contest for a hundred thousand dollar wedding.

"I don't even know how I could spend that much on a wedding," I mused.

"I would totally have it at random-garble-of-Spanish-words" said bride-to-be #1.

"What is random-garble-of-Spanish-words'?" I asked.

Bride-to-be #2 laughed and jokingly patted me on the head, as I shrugged. "Oh, Princess, you still have so much to learn!"

(apparently it is the place to get married here, some sort of grand castle, fyi)

As we bid the hostess, a newlywed herself, adieu, she said to the brides "Good luck on your weddings" and then, to me, "And maybe you'll have one to plan soon, too!"

Did I mention that another friend, along with these already discussed two, asked me today if I saw a proposal coming soon? And even my friend's husbands and fiances are asking him? And my friends are planning which of us unmarried couples should be logically next in line, given our relationship length? (The Duke actually gets a get out of jail free card on this one, as another close friend of mine is has been with her anti-commitment boyfriend for four years now, and it would be terribly rude to get married before them, now, wouldn't it?)

To be clear, it is not that I don't want to get married. Just not right now. I'm still giddily happy in the first year of living together. Why hurry to change that? Besides, a PhD is one demanding mistress.

Besides, what do I know about chair covers and boutonnieres?