Playing the drum in your own school band.

Having just wrapped another year, I've concluded that "tough %$@#" is just another part of growing up. Being an adult is hard. Too hard, I figure, not to do what makes you happy. And there are so many definitions of the word, but I think we all know for ourselves. It can be as easy as making friends with someone like Katie, my sister's best friend, who is a walking caffeine pill. Her energy makes her a brilliant sideshow, and we joke that if she ever got pulled over, we'd pay to see the look on the police officer's face when the breathalyzer results come back negative and they realize that's just how she is.

This is the same girl who once thought it'd be fun to fake a mugging in Bellevue Square.

See? Happy.

At the end of the day, I've just put all of my time and energy into 8-12 hours comprised of moments which, if I'm paying attention, are worth their weight in gold. Moments like spontaneous conversations with my professors, who like to remind me that I'm not as old as I think I am. That just because I like the Beatles and can recite Ferris Bueller's Day Off, doesn't give me license to whine about my age. See, I'm stuck between being a young college student and one who teaches them, yet am surrounded by both on a daily basis. And when I get called to the carpet for calling myself old, I feel the sudden obligation to spout a litany of pop culture references to justify myself. Like love is a battlefield... Captain EO...FLOCK OF SEAGULLS!

I digress. I think it's wired into us to know whether or not we're living how we want to live. Unless we're ignorant and/or delusional, which some people undoubtedly are, bless their hearts.

Speaking of ignorant and delusional.

My girlfriends and I were at a bar recently. It's a dive, the seedier the better. And probably due to the fact that we were keeping to ourselves, an inordinate number of guys approached our table. Because we're fun and easy to get along with, we made conversation. But I can only take so much, and after Guy A had brought over his cousin Guy B and started talking about his great job that is just a launching pad to an even greater job where he'll make six figures, I had to stop him. I leaned over the table and said YES, BUT WHAT ABOUT BEING HAPPY? He said of course he'll be happy, he wouldn't pursue something otherwise. I said ARE YOU SURE? BECAUSE IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU THINK MAKING MONEY WILL MAKE YOU HAPPY. I then realized I was about to become that girl who emasculates guys in bars, so I shut up. He never really did answer my question, which I'd hoped would make him leave, but all he did was keep talking and eventually, ask for my number. Apparently buying a girl a drink gives you the open door to talk about yourself for twenty minutes and then assume she'll have your babies.


Tip: rather than talk your way out of these things, just give away the number for one of your sworn enemies.

I didn't get the feeling happiness was his goal. Gratification, maybe. Unless trolling the Spokane night life is your idea of fun, in which case my attempt at meaningful conversation was probably a mood-killer. Maybe he was misguided. I sat there thinking happiness is almost never synonymous with financial awesomeness, maybe that's what he's afraid of. Then I laughed, because who has two thumbs and apparently has to talk herself out of psycho-analyzing the local bar scene just so she can enjoy girls night? Pass the G&T! Cheers to life, love and the pursuit of unattainable women.  

I can be agreeable when I want to be. 

The older I get, the harder it is to be happy with the small things, but I make it a point to. What reason do I have not to? I'm surrounded by people who love me and want to see me happy. I'm incredibly privileged. The small things are my bread and butter which, if missing, would render my big picture that much emptier. And maturity has its bonuses, self-awareness being one of them. For me, this is key to coming to grips with what life has handed me. Knowing how I react, what I need in order to function, and how to communicate it to others. In fact, I've always thought it would be fun to grab a few adventurous girlfriends and go speed-dating, because by now I have a succinct, to-the-point list of things I would say about myself: about how I'm terrible on the phone, I don't like knives, and I once ran over a railroad tie with my car; that I tend to over-communicate so I hope you can appreciate that; I prefer conversation, books and movies which makes me think, but I steer clear of chick flicks because more often than not I end up feeling like I just lost two hours of my life that I'll never get back, and that Anne Hathaway is mostly to blame for that.