It is funny how I find myself cobbling together bits and pieces of me, envisioning some kind of perfect, never-to-be-realized blend of my existence. I want the free time of my 17-year-old summer. I want to play tennis like 18-year-old Taylor. I want to drink like 21-year-old me. But I reject each of them in their wholeness, remembering the awkwardness of my college search at 17, the cancer scare at 18, the boy I spent a year-and-a-half getting over at 21.
I am eternally cobbled together, a blend of good and bad, of clumsy transitions and moments in which I feel like a damn fine grown-up lady. This is 23, to quote my own Twitter saying like a true millennial.
2016 is erratic, an unpredictable compilation of tedium and triumph. I got blood transfusions. A man told me he loved me and meant it. I ran a half-marathon. I cried about bread. I took the LSAT. (I took a lot of shots after getting my LSAT score back.) I survived six weekly IVs.
In no particular order.
There is an inherent wholeness in the disorder, I’ve discovered, something to derive — and celebrate — from the fact that I’ll never have as much free time as 17-year-old me or be able to hit a forehand like I did senior year. I’m embracing that I’ll never be at this point ever again, that there’s something sacred about committing to my own realness, about refusing to dismiss the bits and pieces of 23 that frankly, I’ve hated at times.
Weekly IVs were terrible, but I find myself missing the moments of stillness and the opportunity to think and write and think some more, two hours every Monday morning. As my life gets busier in August per my tennis vacation in Cincinnati, the Annual Event at work and returning to my second job in September, I’m unexpectedly excited to write my personal statement for law school. To think and write and think some more. To, somehow, represent the wholeness of me on paper and express why 23-year-old totally complete, damn fine grown-up Taylor will make a good future lawyer.