08.13.13

Adulthood: A period also known as Shit Just Got Real

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A lot of people claim that adulthood is easy once you get the hang of it. Those people could just be liars. Or maybe being an adult isn’t that hard, and I’m the only one who still has to look up information like “Why do I have to drink water?” What if I drink a lot of Cactus Cooler? Water is the main ingredient in my favorite beverage. I also consume a lot of milkshakes. Milk comes from cows, and cows drink water.

I asked myself a long time ago what I really valued, and when I let all of the bullshit fall away, I realized that not dying was important to me. That’s why I devote so much time to thinking about important issues like water consumption and lesser items like manners and responsibility get the shaft. How important is it that I remember my brother’s birthday or pay my taxes on time if I’m dead due to dehydration?

Adulthood is not easy. It is so goddamn fucking hard. There are so many moving parts, especially when you are responsible for the happiness and well-being of a child. Motherhood + Adulthood = Shit just got real. Also, if you’re saddled with Character Bumps like laziness or slowpokiness (slowpokeness? slowpoke-itis?), then just go ahead and eat three slices of white bread like I’m doing right now. It’s a longer road for us, and we need the carbs and preservatives.

I’m not a proficient traveler, but…actually, there’s no but. I’m not a proficient traveler. If I had to guess which part of traveling I fuck up more-planning or execution-I’d say it’s an even split. Sometimes, I bungle both sides in one trip. I don’t think it’s a good idea to let Sometimes Adults travel on their own.

Last weekend, I went to San Francisco to attend the book launch party of my buddy, Ghetto Genius. I didn’t bother looking up my exact flight schedule or checking in early online because I was preoccupied with other activities like laying down. Friday morning, after repeated texts and emails from friends who were also flying in for the event, I searched my inbox for the confirmation email.

I wasn’t immediately alarmed when I couldn’t find the confirmation. No big deal. I could just look up my travel itinerary through the booking site. Then, I realized I was facing a few roadblocks. I couldn’t quite remember: 1) Which site I had used to book the ticket and 2) Which airline I was flying.

I started to panic, so I did what I thought was best. I laid down. Then, I texted three friends to ask, “Hey, did I ever tell you that I ACTUALLY booked the ticket or did I only say that I was THINKING about booking it?”

All three responded with variations of “How the fuck would I know?” If this situation has taught me anything, it’s that I need better friends.

I tried to sound casual as I spoke to the reservations lady at one of the airlines. “I’m pretty sure I have a flight today. I can’t find the confirmation email and I’m not 100% certain that it’s your airline. I also don’t know what time I’m flying out or if I really booked the ticket. Would you please check for me?”

“I bet you get phone calls like this all the time,” I added during the silence as she checked.

“Not to this extent, no.”

That admission might have made other people feel bad about themselves, but here’s the thing: It is impossible to be good at everything. Adulthood isn’t about being perfect. Just pick one thing that’s important to you (e.g. hydration) and dive into it. Make it your passion. Let that motherfucker blossom and grow.

P.S. Turns out, I *did* have a ticket to SF. It was wonderful to see J-Wunder and the Ghetto Genius Crew again. For pictures of the book launch party and other not-seen-on-this-blog snapshots, follow along on Instagram (username: flourishinprogress). For (t)hug life thoughts, “like” the Flourish in Progress Facebook page.

P.P.S. J-Wunder’s book Wait…What?!: Life Advice From A Ghetto Genius officially released today and already ranks in the Top 100 Humor Books in Love/Sex/Marriage on Amazon. So fucking proud of you. Nothing but love, homie.

artwork: Richie Stewart for Wander
August 13, 2013
06.12.13

Jesus is my homeboy

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I grew up going to church. I didn’t even realize attendance wasn’t mandatory until I was almost fifteen years old. This may partly be due to the fact that I’m a slow learner, but I’d also like to think it’s because I was an obedient child. When my mother beckoned me from the garage door to get in the damn car right now don’t make me come back into the house to find you stop putting more Sun-In in your hair it’s church not the beach you dummy, I followed her orders without hassle. Being such a pleasure to parent is probably the reason I gave birth to a good kid myself. I hear God doesn’t play favorites, but just look at how that all worked out. Suspicious, amirite?

After I became an unwed pregnant teenager, I stopped attending regularly because I feared judgment. Not from God, but from the other churchgoers. It wasn’t a sure thing that my situation was going to light up the gossip circuit, but people were still talking about how a certain family had moved from a five-bedroom home into a duplex. I was pretty sure an 18-year-old’s surprise pregnancy was almost as interesting as a real estate step-down. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being bigheaded.

Not going to church didn’t mean that I no longer believed in God. I still hollered at Him from time to time when I felt especially broken. My prayers became casual conversations. Not like a real-time chat where I would share an issue and He would respond immediately. It was more like a text exchange where I sent off a thought, knowing He would get back to me eventually. Sometimes, it would take weeks or months, but I have other friends who lag like that. I’ve learned to accept them for who they are.

Because I missed the sense of community, I started going to a different church when Cal was a toddler. The new place seemed legit, and I still know people from my brief stint there who I am proud to call my friends.

I stopped attending after the pastor’s wife pulled me aside to express her concern that bringing Cal to church might influence the youth group kids into believing that our church condoned teen parenthood. Just like I have a personal policy about not hitting other people’s kids, I also won’t hit a pastor’s wife. Or a pastor. We all need to set boundaries for ourselves and those are mine. (It may seem like I go around hitting people, but I want you to know that I haven’t gotten into a physical altercation in YEARS. I also don’t hit animals or old people.)

I still believe in God. I’ve never really talked about being religious before, and I was scared to do it today, but just because I don’t talk about something doesn’t make it less true.

I also still believe that not all religious people are narrow-minded or judgmental or that being a pillar of a church community exempts a person from making very human mistakes with their words and actions. I won’t blame that pastor’s wife as the reason I haven’t made an effort to attend church regularly for the past twelve years. It was a choice I made.

For years, I waved to Harv and Cal as they left for Sunday service. In the past few months, I’ve started joining them occasionally. I’m always nervous when I walk through the heavy wooden doors. The sheer amount of swearing I do each week makes me think I’m going to burst into flames. That’s probably not how God works, but I don’t put anything past that guy. Even if He is my homeboy.

P.S. Stay connected on the Flourish in Progress Facebook page and on Instagram (username: flourishinprogress) for not-seen-on-this-blog pictures and other random shit that a small portion of the population finds mildly entertaining.

June 12, 2013