A mural taped to my kitchen floor is distracting me today.
It’s unfinished and will remain so until the eve of my birthday celebration when party attendees will add the finishing touches: messages of love, peace, prosperity and gratitude.
At dusk, we’ll parade through our neighborhood—the streets where Oakland and Berkeley tangle together—and tape our artwork to some to-be-determined neglected façade. There it will hang radiant and glorious until its more than likely rapid demise.
One section will be left blank for passersby to add their own messages of good will and inspiration.
I will be 34 on Oct. 1st.
My life is not what I thought it would be at the age of 34.
I do not have a thriving career,
home, garden or dog.
I do not come home in the evenings to a husband,
boyfriend or promising fling with whom I weigh weekend plans.
My space is shared with Twentysometings,
quarters are needed to do laundry.
Whimsical tissue-paper flowers in 20 different shades decorate our hall.
Walking to the bathroom feels like a celebration.
I’m a Nissan Datsun 280Z—silly showy, sturdy, fun and entirely impractical. My age shows in rust and archaic dials but this does not slow my zeal to go, try and do. I’m 34 going on 22.
O.k. I’m going to do something brave.
Something I would have never done before I shaved my head, launched a blog and decided to not let fear dictate my decisions.
I will let you in on one of my secret life joys.
Secret life joy?
Yes, we all have them. These are the things we love but only feel free to indulge in when no one is around to judge, sneer or laugh—because that’s surely what they’d do.
Rapping when your rhymes don’t exactly flow at times; feeling the warmth, curves and squishes places of your body and liking it; really enjoying something delicious (preferably eaten with your hands)—these all fit the bill.
Our secret life joys often happen behind closed doors and we rarely talk about them.
Well today, with a blush, I open that door:
Yesterday, a man rolling a joint on the corner of 23rd and Telegraph looked my way. He was talking on the phone and once the joint was completed he began walking towards me. “Hey, hey!” he called in my direction. I prepared myself for that awkward exchange where I say I don’t have any money even though I maybe do.
But instead …
“I like your hairstyle,” he said. “Oh, thanks,” I nonchalantly replied.
Wait … What did he say? REALLY? REALLY?? “He likes my hairstyle?” I had never heard this before. “I like your hair,” sure. Style? It rang of choice and expression.