Turning, Turning 30

So, yesterday was my birthday (that’s right, folks, and anyone who didn’t wish me a Happy Birthday on Facebook or Myspace, you’ve been subsequently deleted!) and I turned thirty years old (nifty title, right).  Many people asked me the obvious question of how it feels to turn thirty.

Well, here’s my answer.

My first decade, I barely remember (my mother has a minute-by-minute synopsis in case anyone is interested).  We lived in a house in Oak Lawn, Illinois on like 92nd off of Cicero Ave.  My memory of the house was that it was really big and green, though when I went back several years ago, it turned out to be average-sized and yellow and brown.  The bushes where I kissed a girl the first time (Candace, who was a year older–always had a thing for older women) and saw two girls kiss for the first time (Candace and the girl across the street, whose name escapes me, but she had red hair and freckles) were still there.  The fruit trees, which seemed like a great idea, dad, but in the end didn’t bear fruit and attracted swarms of bees, were flourishing.  The people who lived there had a boy about my age and shot hoops with him in his driveway and educated him on the finer points of getting two chicks to kiss in the bushes.

My second decade began with the same innocence (if you can call achieving a triple-kiss by seven years old innocent) as my first, though picked up steam in the second half to where I was completely out of control.  Drinking, drugs, throwing parties at my folks house when they were out of town with three hundred plus kids and six kegs and ten bottles of champagne for new years 1996.  Seminal events that I can remember were hitting two home runs to beat Homer Township in the Palos Youth Baseball Invitational.  Swimming at my grandfather’s pool.  Getting my first pubic hair (I made a big deal out of this, for some reason, even though looking back I’m mortified with my need to show and tell).  My first kiss, first girlfriend, and losing my virginity (when I was seventeen, on my parent’s bed–ew, gross, right, though, truth be told they never slept together there–in case anyone cares).  I’d have to say most of my memories of these years revolved around baseball or partying with friends or girls.  Those three things taken separately are fine, but put them together they tend to knock heads, and they did.  When I should have been hititng off of my tee, I was chasing girls.  When I should have been chasing girls, I was hitting off of my tee (no pun intended).  Main regrets from this period in my life were that I didn’t try hard enough academically in high school, didn’t put forth the effort to get into a better college, and I chickened out many times with asking out, ummm, lets call her D-squared.

From 20 to thirty I continued the bad habits accrued during my teens.  College was college, what can I say.  I had a house 423 W. Vernon!!!) with three of my best friends from high school, hung out everyday with a couple of my other best friends from high school, and met two of my best friends in my life to this day.  We did too many drugs, drank too much, but we all lived.  And I learned the skill of entertaining people and turning a profit (something I didn’t learn after spending twenty grand on college marketing classes, from bored, bitter marketing teachers).

One choice I made that I’ll never regret is when I graduated from college (Illinois State!) and packed up my 1986 Chevy Monte Carlo and drove to Los Angeles.  The time I spent in LA, with the people and the experiences and the work, was worth more than college.  I grew more in that time that I ever did in high school or college.  I learned more about myself and the world around me and interacted with such a plethora of people (gay, straight, white, black, dolphin) that I’ll never be the same.  And I don’t regret moving home when my dad first got sick.  And though I’ve been floundering a bit in the five years since I moved back to Chicago from LA, I don’t really regret 25-30 either.  I’ve met some people that will be a part of my life until it’s done.  I dated women that made a clear impression on my life, and though I know I wasn’t the best boyfriend (can I even use that term, ladies?); God, I was difficult, and closed-off, and moody, and selfish, and frustratingly fearful of commitment, and add your own adjective, ladies (for all you SS–single and sexy–women in the reading audience, notice how I said WAS), but I know you made an impression on me, some of you put imprints on my life, and there’s one or two who I know I’ll regret not strapping to the gurney of matrimony.  

At 27, I decided law school was the answer and I moved to Arizona only to decide a year later that law school was the answer for mom and dad, and the only thing in the world that has a shot to make me happy is for me to be a professional writer.  And a couple people, here in Arizona, I am forever in debt to for taking me out of line and giving me the encouragement and advice that I know someday will pay off.

Today, I’m 30 years old and almost nine hours.  Looking back on the first three decades of my life, I see some great accomplishments and feel the pain of some powerful failures and mistakes and missed opportunities.  But we can’t go back, can we?  We don’t get do overs.  All we can do is march forward.  So onward and upward, I say.  My life, so far, is what I made it and I wouldn’t change it because I feel the best decades of my life are in front of me, not in the rear-view.  I feel like I’ve spent thirty years preparing for something and very soon it will crystalize into this coherent vision and all the struggling and battling and starts and restarts of my first three decades will suddenly make sense. 

So, long answer (see above), short answer for how do I feel about turning thirty?

Reflective and hopeful.

Thanks for reading.  Please comment, if you have the urge.  No one will judge you.  Well, maybe a little bit.  🙂

MJ

The Death of Dreams

Do you have dreams?  

I guess we all do or did, whether the dream was to make it to outer-space, create a unique math formula, become a Hollywood actress, eat a forty ounce t-bone, run a four minute mile, make a million dollars by thirty, marry a supermodel, live in Brazil, become a father, make it to the Big Leagues, become a writer or a train conductor or an accountant (not sure if someone ever dreamed of becoming an accountant) or a gym teacher or police or fire or mother, what happens to those dreams when they slip away?  What I mean is, we all can’t be professional baseball players, in fact most of us won’t be, but our dream to become a professional baseball player is as real to us as anything else, so what happens when we don’t reach our dreams?  Is there a scrap-yard where discarded dreams go or are they put out to pasture to run with other unachieved dreams?  Do we bury these failures deep within ourselves along with all the other multitude of failures we accumulate in our lives?

I have dreams.  My dream from conception (my mother swears it so) to twenty-four was to play professional baseball.  I worked hard at this dream, too.  I built a batting cage in my basement consisting of a mattress and sheets and a batting tee.  I woke up every morning an hour before I needed to get ready for school and hit in that basement.  I studied professional players stances and batting and fielding techniques and emulated them.  My brother and I practiced pretty much all day, everyday.  I showed up early to school to hit and work out with a couple buddies from my high school baseball team.  Ultimately, I quit halfway through my freshman college season to smoke pot and hang out with my friends.  Two years later, I tried out for Illinois State University’s baseball team and made it to the last five walk-ons standing before I was cut.  I’ll never forget the feeling of knowing I’d never make it to the Big Leagues.  I can feel that pain in my heart as I type this blog.  I compare the feeling of losing baseball to a marriage breaking apart.  I’ve never felt more comfortable then I felt on the baseball field, never felt as right as I did in the batters box, just like love, I guess, which gives you an intense high but when it breaks up you feel as though the world’s gonna quit spinning and toss you off.

I’ve never gotten over failing at my first big dream.  I don’t think I ever will.  I could look at it many different ways, it just wasn’t meant to be, timing wasn’t right, playing pro ball wasn’t your destiny, it’s not your fault, there’s something else out there for you, but in my heart I know that life is really short and you only get one go around (if only I could slip into the wonderful beliefs of reincarnation) and Ryan Theriot is playing shortstop for the Chicago Cubs and  I am not and I never will and all that extra effort, all those hours I logged in the family basemen slugging away were for naught.

My latest dream was to get into graduate school and earn my Masters in Fine Arts so I could become a college professor.  I received my ninth and final rejection this afternoon.  There’s a peace that’s come over me in realizing that no, I will not be attending graduate school in the fall; no, I will not begin the journey toward a career as a viable writer and talented teacher; yes, I am looking at another year, another ten years of slinging drinks and faking smiles as your local Scottsdale, Arizona bartender.  I know in this case, unlike when my baseball dreams ended (when I chose smoking pot and drinking with friends and chasing Capris pants), I did everything I could to attain my dream.  Looking back, I can’t see anything I could have done better or different.  But knowing that doesn’t give me solace.  

The food of failure, dipped in any sauce, tastes terrible.

I am curious to find out how other people deal with the death of dreams.  Is it easier for you to just brush it aside and move on?  Or is it something that you hold in the deep recesses of your soul, where you lock up everything other disappointment, all the other life failures, behind padded walls so they can’t hurt you anymore?  Or is it just not that important, am I making a huge deal out of something that shouldn’t matter (like I’m prone to do)?

Maybe life isn’t about the achievement of dreams at all; maybe life is about the striving toward them.  The journey, so to speak.

I’d love to hear your thoughts.  I’d love to hear what your dreams are/were/will be.  I think it would be so therapeutic if others heard your stories, learned of your struggles.  Please don’t feel embarrassed to share.  We’re all fellow sufferers here!

Thanks for reading and commenting and sharing.

MJ

To reach me, you may email me at jonah14646@yahoo.com.

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