Knives and Gunfights. Oh!--And Confetti.

Some days, I am the girl that brings a knife to a gunfight and wins. I mean, I fly airplanes, go on spinny rides, and talk to strangers. I vacation by myself, break the speed limit and occasionally, on sultry, late summer days, embrace my 1980s video-music-girl hair. I studied the night before the test and made it happen.

Lately though, I don't think I'd even make it out of bed for the gunfight.

Oh, how I hate job hunting.

Then again I did happen to notice today that I have a substantial amount of free miles waiting for my attention. Looks like I could head West and finally dip my toes in the Pacific. Maybe do some skydiving too. I mean...while I'm in the neighborhood. In a month, my self-imposed work deadline hits. I imagine that shortly after that the unemployment will run out. I can hear the critics whispering "Save your money, you little fool." But when else am I going to go? I know corporate schedules and I know retail schedules; and neither are necessarily travel-friendly. Any time I traveled for work, by the time we wrapped up whatever needed done at the office, I could barely stay awake through the required dinner with business colleagues. And in retail, weekends don't exist. There's no method to that madness, which is probably why I can't get out of bed for my gunfight. 

Do I believe in saving money? Absolutely. But I believe in saving it to spend it. Spend it how? On making memories. At the end of my life, I don't want to say "My, look how much money I've saved!" I'd rather have wonderful memories and no regrets. I get upset when I don't buy a shirt and then it's gone. The mere thought of that feeling multiplied by 100x...I do not like regret. I spent a lot of my life working hard and waiting. Waiting for what, I'm not sure. Things have not turned out anywhere close to what I imagined. My ideas of being a successful career woman are thus far a joke. Yes, it's not my fault; and yes, it's kind of funny that I lose my job every two years. It will be much funnier when I am once again employed in a relevant field. (Until that 2 year anniversary approaches...)

I can remember as a kid, being sequestered upstairs when my parents hosted parties. Now before you start imagining these wild and crazy sha-bangs where people were swinging from chandeliers, that's not Big Kim and Garebear's type of party. They were much more sedate, with no alcohol involved. The demographic of these parties was made up of church people, after all. It so happens that my parents were a few years older than some of their friends, and I guess maybe by virtue of already being 30, it seemed they offered to host all future 30th birthday parties. (Although my mom did seem to enjoy hosting parties in general. There were other types of parties as well. But more on that later.) A lot of people were turning 30 around the same time. And if you were turning 30, you were turning 30 at my house. The parties were hosted downstairs on the main level at our house. The week before there was a lot of cleaning and a lot of prepping for us kids. Typically, we'd get to rent a special movie. I realize now that this special movie was nothing more than a lure to keep us upstairs so the adults could have fun downstairs. There were black streamers and black balloons and black paper plates emblazoned with the confusing phrase: "Over the Hill." What did it all mean? As the appointed hour approached, final touches were put in place. There were cheese cubes placed in trays and olives in fancy glass dishes; pretzels and chips and dip and candles lit. My siblings and I were not allowed to touch anything, but I usually tried to get a good look at the glittering confetti littering the tables. As I close my eyes now, I can smell my mom's perfume and feel the heat on my cheeks. Whether it was anticipation or our house was just hot, I couldn't tell you. Being Italian, things are even at their coolest just a bit warm. We kids would grudgingly drag ourselves up the stairs, lamenting the fact that we'd once again miss out. My sister usually clung to my mom the longest, finally disengaging just as the first guests arrived.

We were hustled upstairs with snacks and threatened to not venture down those stairs unless we were on fire. (Okay, maybe those weren't the exact words, but that was the general message.) A television was hijacked and set up in one of our bedrooms for the "special" movies. Sometimes, other kids whose parents were at the party would come over too. There's not one single memory; all of the parties just blend together. One movie choice was "E.T."--I hated it and still can't sit through it. And no matter how loud we had the TV turned up, muffled laughter from below seemed to vibrate the upper story of our house. The parties always seemed so much fun. Sometimes, after the movie ended and feeling bold, one of us inevitably eased our way down, step by step. We had a half wall and then a banister, perfect for creeping little eyes. I was of course, too large to be stealthy by this point, and having given up on ballet, lacked the grace required to sneak up on any crowd. But my younger siblings, still quite nimble, could manage pretty well. They were also much cuter. My brother who never knew a stranger, could charm anyone with his endless chatter. My sister, so often in the hospital those days, was a snuggler and favorite for many of the church ladies. I, on the other hand, was a bit like a bull in a china shop. I believe the phrase "I love you like a fat kid loves cake" was inspired by this particularly awkward phase in my life. My brother wanted to schmooze. My sister wanted my mom. I wanted all the leftover food. Oh--and the confetti. Of course the confetti.

I seem to recall snippets of conversation following one party where the celebrant was blindfolded. I guess they were farther down on the "people-turning-30" list. Even as a kid, after a few parties, I wondered how anyone was surprised. I mean, if it was your birthday, and you were on your way to my house...you had to know. At a certain point with that group, you just had to know you weren't safe. Besides that, we lived a little outside of town so as soon as they were in the car and realized where they were off to...close to their birthday...they had to know it wasn't going to be a nice, quiet dinner. In an Amish town, your dining out options are pretty slim anyway. 

The whole thing was all very dramatic and clearly made a lasting impression. I grew up thinking everyone was kidnapped and brought to our darkly-decorated home for their 30th birthday. 

...So when I say life isn't turning out exactly how I planned, the aforementioned memories are what I think of when I think of 30. I'm not saying I want to be kidnapped. Read that again. I just remember that people seemed so much farther along in their lives. Jobs. Dogs. Marriage. Kids. There are days I look at my life and it still feel like it's "special movie" time.

The basic gist of the "knife in a gunfight" saying has to do with preparation; whether I like it or not, these experiences I'm having now--today--will prepare me for whatever I must face tomorrow. On my dark days when I can't get out of bed, am I terrified it will be like this forever? Sure. That I'll get a job then have this happen again? Of course (in exactly two years.) On good days, I let the punches land where they may. I plan writing jaunts full of rest and reflection and vacations full of sight-seeing. Whether I'm experiencing the former or the latter, whatever type of day I'm having I need to take the lessons and prepare myself for the next fight. (If you don't like fights, think of them as "events." But trust me, I have a background in event planning and might prefer the gunfight, OK Corral style.) 

Growing up, I always imagined I'd throw parties like my mom. I didn't count on not having a house of my own. They say that 40 is the new 30 though, so maybe there will still be parties in my future. 

And, yes. There will be confetti.