How to Have A Meltdown

Hola bitches. and Gentleman, in the event that Postal decided we're all more entertaining than we are crazy, and stuck around. I'm making a special appearance today in honor of the fact that I turned 25 last week - and I wanted to share with you, that if you're going to celebrate a milestone birthday, there is no better way to do it than with a monumental-shit hitting the fan-heart palpitating-speed talking-batshit crazy meltdown. A la...me.

See, one particularly lovely friend (asshole), thought it would be smart to tell me that at the tender age of ONE-QAURTER CENTURY, all that I had remaining to look forward to – was marriage and children. This little nugget of wisdom was the rough equivalent of well-placed punch in the mouth. 25 years old, and I’m pretty sure that I had my first instantaneous hot flash. I tried to imagine myself chasing 2 kids around my fictional backyard and cooking dinner at night for my wonderful husband (yes, I live in fantasy world conveniently enveloped in a white picket fence) … and here is what happened next.

I decided to tell anyone who would listen (which included the boyfriend, family, extended family, friends and the random bartender) that I was no longer sure I wanted to live in Philadelphia. I wanted to move. To Florida. And before Florida, I wanted to quit my job and go travel around Greece and Italy for a while. That could be before or after I travel to New Orleans to help rebuild stuff. And maybe stall any wedding or babies for another 10 years. Or maybe skip babies and adopt. (Who am I, Angelina? I collect Louboutins, not Ethiopians) And take 15 vacations. And die my hair for the 35,000^th time. And lose 10 more pounds. Also, I wanted to try swimming with sharks, bungee jumping and possibly heroin. Ok, not heroin, but I needed something extreme to end that sentence. I capped that off by going out shopping and spent entirely too much money on dresses and shoes.

I imagine that I looked something like a deer caught in headlights. Only crazier. And with a penchant for heavy breathing and disarrayed pacing. Everyone got a good laugh out of me – and the rest became concerned for my wellbeing, lest I run should off to Mexico and begin an affair with a cartel leader of some sort. My girlfriends empathized and told me stories of their own meltdowns at certain birthdays. The guys looked at me like I was a patient who’d been released a few hours to early from the psych ward. It was a sight to behold, really.

Cut to a week later. Here’s what I’ve figured out. 1) I’m a hot mess. This is fine with me. I’m a female and the fact that I have a vagina pretty much entitles me to have an emotional implosion anytime I feel like it. 2) That silly sounding list that I rambled off like a deprived meth addict - isn’t that silly. I WANT to move to Florida someday. I WANT to go to Italy and Greece. I WANT to be a part of something bigger than just myself and help other people. I WANT to dance on tables still, and have my girls’ nights, and still come home to someone who thinks I’m sexy in sweatpants! And DAMNIT I WANT TO SWIM WITH SHARKS! 

It probably didn’t require a panic attack of epic proportions. I can do all of these things if I want (maybe not the stalling marriage and kids 10 years, I’m not cut out to have to lose baby weight at 35). It probably didn’t even require a mini-meltdown. A few mojitos and a couple shots probably would have done the trick (FYI, they did. On a Monday night. My coworkers love the smell of leftover rum on Tuesday mornings). BUT, the fact remains - I want an adventure. And regardless of who joins me for the ride or where I end up – I’m going to have it. So cheers to 25 – I’m going to embrace it with class... by class I mean a bottle of wine and some Prozac.

Take care strangers, xoxo