Thirty
Twelve years ago today, I visited Seattle the first time. Three years ago today, I was invited to return to Seattle, not to visit but to stay. Two years ago today, overpasses and floating bridges thrust me into an existential crisis. And, one year ago today, I became more afraid of not living than dying.
Today, I am a bit less resolute. I spend less time thinking lofty thoughts from a Seattle loft and more time taking stock of things done and things undone. This piece must be finished before 1:30 p.m., so I can get to FedEx and fetch the kitchen cart I ordered from IKEA before the storefront closes. After this, I will cross a floating bridge, thinking less about the bridge and more about the cereal, pea milk, and shredded lettuce I need to buy at Met Market. The dinner I’ll order from Cheesecake Factory feels more like one more item on the to-do list rather than an act of remembrance.
In one month, I will turn 30. The English language is, for better or worse, a language that permits verbs to have tenses. The word will grants me permission to banish my thirtieth birthday into a four-walled future, where maybe it can join its buddies Melting Icecaps, 2023 Recession, and Jonathan’s Monthly Budget for a round of drinks. Chinese speakers aren’t so lucky, though. Their verbs don’t have tenses. To them, in one month, I turn 30. Then my ability to make ends meet melts, followed by the economy and the icecaps. But the way I see it, I’m not turning 30. I will turn 30. In the meantime, packages must be picked up, the shredded lettuce must be bought, and a decision between red velvet and Oreo cheesecake must be made.
Last night was like any other Friday night in the not-so-roaring 20’s: I was at home, plans canceled due to a COVID exposure, practicing my R skills on DataCamp as Matt Smith’s final appearance as Doctor Who’s eleventh incarnation hummed in the background:
We all change when you think about it. We’re all different people all through our lives. And that’s okay, that’s good; you’ve got to keep moving, as long as you remember all the people that you used to be. I will not forget one line of this, not one day, I swear. I will always remember when The Doctor was me.
In the foreground, messages were swirling to and from — who else — my friend, grad school classmate, and ultimate Doctor Who aficionado Meredith. She’d discovered I’m considering yet another career change, this time to UX research. “It sounds like it’d be an amazing fit for you,” she said.
One year ago, I wanted to do something to make the world a better place, so I joined a research lab to help doctors study risk factors and after effects of COVID-19 infection. That’s what the world needed at the time, right? I’ve since found myself a round peg in a square hole, coasting along and performing fine but only fine. But recently, I’ve come to the conclusion that the pursuit of lofty altruism may not be making the world a better place. No, what makes the world a better place is when we find that thing that gets us up in the morning, that thing that grabs everything we’ve got to offer by the horns and fully engages it, and we run toward it.
We’re all different people through our lives. And that’s okay, that’s good. You’ve got to keep moving.
In one month, I will turn 30.
When staring down change, I am far more like the Tenth Doctor than the Eleventh Doctor. Eleven accepted his fate. But when the Tenth Doctor’s time came, fear and sweat dripped down his face. “I don’t want to go,” he kept mumbling.
As fate would have it, one of my final moments as a Southerner was watching an anniversary screening of the David Tennant’s final performance as Ten in a Cinemark theater with — who else — Meredith. After the show, we got cups of ice cream from a local parlor. I don’t recall what we talked about then. All I remember is the thick humidity of that Atlanta evening and that I was with my friend. That’s good enough for me.
The next morning, she watched as I tossed the final bag into my SUV’s hatchback.
“I don’t want to go,” I cheekily told her. Humor was how I dealt with everything, including the 2,600 miles staring us down.
“You did not!” she said, half-laughing, half-angry.
She hugged me good-bye before I took one last trip down I-20 West.
But really, I did not want to go.
Over the past three years, I’ve learned many lessons, some of which include:
- Do not ask Whovians to rank Ten and Eleven. David Tennant and Matt Smith are uniquely and equally superb.
- When it comes to change, listen to Eleven, not Ten.
Today, I am picking up the kitchen cart, buy the shredded lettuce, and order takeout from the Cheesecake Factory. In a few months, I am sending out resumes to positions where my performance can be more than adequate.
And in one month, I turn 30.
I will remember all the people I used to be, but I’ve got to keep moving.
