I Changed in 2019, But Not In The Way I Thought I Would
I rung in 2019 with some of my best friends. It was simple and idyllic: we congregated in the recreational area of a Brooklyn apartment building, got moderately drunk, and snacked on Tostitos amidst strangers. I dressed to the sevens in a Macy’s-bought black, sparkled romper and some overpriced, doubly twinkled Michael Kors booties while I soaked in every second with good people. We mostly just chatted around pool tables and indulged in each other’s company. At the strike of midnight, couples kissed and friends hugged. I existed in a perfect trifecta of sentiments: blissfully aware of my youth, unburdened, and loved. There’s not much else that makes you feel, at the risk of waxing idealistic, so perfect.
The feeling was renewing. It felt to me a christening for a year that would bring palpably positive changes: a better salary perhaps, or a boyfriend, or a nurtured hobby turned alternative source of income. The possibilities felt limitless but not yet intimidating. I went into 2019 with a butterfly-filled naivety that I’d last felt when I started high school. It was as beautiful as it was rare.
But it was dangerously delicate.
Hardly a month in, I made the executive decision to temporarily retire my role as Overly Cautious 20 Something Year Old by downloading the God-forsaken, never-not-ironically-downloaded, little-known ‘dating’ app Tinder.
Fast-forward two weeks and I’d matched with an impossibly good-looking redhead who was both tall and smart (hard to find) and he asked me on a bonafide dinner date. It was a good sign after swiping through endless profiles of average to downright bad looking men ever so graciously informing me they were “just looking to have fun.” It wasn’t just about taking chances. I’d found a unicorn.
So I did what I had to do. I told everyone, panicked, and pregamed it with a coworker. Two cranberry vodkas did little to quiet the thump of my cardiac patter, but it did God’s work of humbly allowing me not to fuss.
And so it went. The date was great. Conversation was effortless. A mere one hour into the thing and this gentleman and I had already established an unprecedented amount of rapport; we shared great laughs and even got mildly vulnerable with one another. Our first date lasted 5 hours and by the end of it we’d really gotten along.
Somehow I didn’t believe it. Though I didn’t doubt that we had chemistry, there was an urgency he emitted that felt fabricated. This urgency felt contrived though this gentleman spoke with a conviction that was both gentle and disarming. He seemed like a friend.
I’ll spare you the further details: we met for a second dinner two days later and went dancing afterwards. This was an equally lovely time until he’d gotten drunker than I did and begun to lay on some serious moves. Noticing my withdrawal, he picked apart my hesitance, and in the spirit of the vulnerability we’d both already set the precedent for, I told him the truth.
“You’re moving too fast for me, and I want to take things a date at a time.”
He said all the right things about what we’d do on our seventh date, and our eighth date; he even said amazingly forward things like “I can’t wait for you to meet my family.” But as my gut (a powerful and decisively shrewd little bitch) predicted, there was no third date. I never heard from him again.
I spent the aftermath of our second date in a state of despondent shock, disturbed by the lengths a person would go to to get in my pants, but also viscerally unsurprised. There was a bell inside of me that had been ringing from the moment we shared a laugh, one that I had spent the sum of our few days together viciously suppressing. The voice that said you should not believe a good thing is true, not only prevailed, it conquered and colonized. Men are dangerous, of course, but not nearly as dangerous as a cynicism come true. Optimism was never a thing that came to me easily — it was something I fought for (and still do), like alertness on a jam-packed work day — and after having held it for a brief moment, it escaped me more quickly than I could exhale. I was bummed.
The year started off poorly, but it certainly hadn’t stopped there. After resuming my role as Overly Cautious 20 Something Year Old, my father and I had gotten into a terrible argument in early June. It was an inordinately toxic situation that sprung me into a deep depression. I spent the month icing out coworkers, holding back tears during regular interactions, and forgetting information constantly until finally breaking down at my desk (twice). A coworker of mine noticed I was off. She recommended I go to therapy. She also recommended I shape up otherwise I might lose my job.
Things only looked up after I went on vacation to Canada for a week. It was rest that I needed — a simple reprieve from the poison of monotony. When I came back, I felt compelled to take initiative in an area of my life that didn’t overwhelm me. So I redid my room. I painted all four walls by myself, sold my twin sized bed, indulged in a $1000 mattress, got a desk, hand-crafted an LED-lit vanity, and decorated my space.
I faked it until I made it. I shaped up at my job. I spent well-needed time with dear friends. I let go of that which I couldn’t control, and I captained the trajectory on that which I could. I wasn’t perfect; the year wasn’t at all what I envisioned, but I’d grown a bit.
Come the fall, I stopped giving my father the cold shoulder. He didn’t deserve it, but I did. I gave up. I was still so mad, and so hurt. But I had nearly drowned under the weight of the grief I held onto, so I chose to undo myself from its grasp. It was the best choice I made that year. The rest of it was stunningly average.
So I changed in 2019, but not in the way I thought I would. I thought I’d have more to show for another 365 days around the sun: a handsome boyfriend, a sparklier salary, a cynicism unrealized. Yet I have none of these things. I’m comfortably single (sorry mom), my salary shines only the cost-of-living bit more, and I’ll live to tell the cautionary tale of how I tried to find a golden-hearted, 6-foot-tall Casanova off of Tinder.
All that I have now is ineffable and hiding in plain sight. I have only the knowledge that I’ve grown into someone much more thoughtful, kind, actionable, and loving. I’m a better friend. I don’t cry as much as I used to. I get more shit done. I smile more than I ever have. I expect less. I forgive more.
After the cynicism manifested, there was no aha-moment that absolved the stain of a broken relationship or the mark of an unkind stranger dressed in sheepskin. There was only time. With it came the realization that many good things were already true. They had always been true.
I rang in 2020 the way I did 2019 — with the same best friends. It was as simple and idyllic as the year prior. We barhopped East Village. We danced. We laughed. We made friends with strangers, and we ate great pizza. It was the same tune my life had sung before — the melody as steady and mollifying as the last. Only this year, I felt no christening for a flux of flashy upgrades and betterments, simply the feeling of intimidation last year’s rebirth had lacked. I’m hopeful, but not flippant. The butterfly-filled naivety has flown away from me, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid. I know this year is going to hurt and heal me in its own stubborn and serendipitous ways, but I also know the old song of good friends and great pizza is a tune I’ll never lose. It’s one I can’t forget.
This feeling’s a little less beautiful, but no less rare. It’s made to last.
