Thirty, I Welcome You!

I turned 30 about 3 months ago, and I had the most amazing birthday party - birthday weekend - ever. It was epic! Magical! There was paragliding, cycling, fine dining, Rothko, LA Philharmonic with Dudamel, red velvet cake, family and friends from out of town, a movie about my life with home video highlights created by Dad, and a book of tributes gathered and artistically assembled by Mom. (Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who contributed! Your kind and generous and creative words meant so much to me.)

I was overcome by the amount of love bestowed upon me throughout the weekend. The amount of planning and work from my parents, the thoughtful gifts and the personal tributes moved me deeply. Because this new decade was ushered in with so much love and ritual and celebration, it has been impossible for me to feel any regret or fear about being in my thirties. I feel only gratitude for the family and friends who blessed my first three decades and who have lovingly launched me into the next.

Turning thirty was unforgettable, and being 30 has been wonderful too - mostly because I can use it as an excuse to justify just about anything. For example:

I am going to run my first half marathon because I am 30! (Saturday, June 25 - still nursing some shin splints. Wish me luck!)
I am going to stop wearing old T-shirts to bed and get some matching pajamas because I am 30!
I don't have to watch cartoons for an institute activity on a Friday night because I am 30!
I am going to frame some original art to hang on my wall because I am 30!
I am going to go wild at the Fremont Solstice Parade because I am 30! 


In reality, I would probably be doing these things regardless of my age, but it is fun to have a ready for excuse for things that I do or do not want to do.

So overall, consider this a hearty endorsement for both turning and being 30.

Classic?

I just saw the film Breakfast at Tiffany's for the very first time. My initial reaction is: "Huh?"

I really do not understand how a gigolo, a nameless cat, a White man made over to look like an Asian, a farmer looking for his 14-year-old bride, a Brazilian millionaire, the mafia and an anorexic spaz all add up to make a classic.

The costumes were beautiful, and there were some interesting shots, but the rest of it was odd, incongruous and unbelievable. I watched it with two other Breakfast at Tiffany's novices, and throughout the film we took turns interjecting, "What?! This is so weird."

Is this movie the film version of Moby Dick - a classic that no one actually likes?

At least a catchy pop song came out of it.

My Therapeutic Bias

As a therapist, my job is to provide a place where people can feel accepted for who they are. I am supposed to "check my biases at the door" in order to empower my clients to make their own decisions.

I have learned to remain calm and impartial when students have told me about selling marijuana to 6th graders (he was a Senior), stealing car stereos for fun, and blackmailing parents for ransom money. Recently, I have sincerely made each of the following statements without any sarcasm or irony:

"So even though your boyfriend has given you STD's four different times, you still do not want to have protected sex with him."
"What I hear you saying is that graduating from high school is not as important to you as owning a gun."
"Oh, I am so sorry that your 14-year-old girlfriend had a miscarriage. That must be really hard for you."

But there is one thing that I can not accept. One thing that makes it almost impossible for me to work with a client. One thing that evokes all my prejudices and biases:

adolescent male mustache hair.

I'm talking about those long thin wispy dark hairs on the upper lip. The ones that look like they belong on the leg of a 13-year-old girl. This is not a statement against full-grown man mustaches; my beloved grandfather has had an attractive one his entire life. I am coming down against boys who are in denial about their ability to grow a real mustache and no one has told them that the pubescent beginnings of one are just gross.

My teenage brother Steven grew a mustache once - ironically. We made the above video as a joke. Unless you are purposefully trying to be ridiculous, this should not be done.

When I talk to the boys in question, I feel like a man talking to a woman who is purposefully trying to avoid looking at her chest: I purposefully try to avoid looking at their upper lip by maintaining strict eye contact. The problem is that instead of focusing on what they are saying, I am focusing on not looking at their face. When I do accidentally glance at it, I have to focus on not gagging. This is not an effective approach to creating a strong therapeutic bond. 

If I am going to provide meaningful counseling to these boys, I am going to have to figure this out. I can not let whiskers effect how I feel about them! I can not let personal grooming keep me from being able to create a safe and accepting environment!

I think I am going to start keeping a basket of free disposable razors in my office.

Nightstand Anaylsis

This is my nightstand:

This is my mom's:

This is my dad's:

This is my uncle's:

I love being surrounded by books. I love reading them and holding them, and I love having them next to me when I sleep.

I think the reason that I like having them so close to my bed is because I hope that some sort of osmosis will occur during the night. There is just not enough time to read everything I want to; absorption seems like the only solution. Even in rooms where I have not had a nightstand, there has always been a toppling pile of books on my floor.

The sad reality that I will never be able to read all that I want hits me every time I walk into a bookstore. I become simultaneously excited and stressed: excited because of all the intriguing titles - both new ones and classics - and stressed because I know that in reality I will probably never read more than just the titles.

So somehow, having a collection of books close to my head for long periods of time creates the hope (the illusion?) that even if I do not get to read every page, those pages will still become a part of me. I hesitate to put those books back on the shelf because it feels like releasing them from active duty and admitting defeat - even if I have not turned some of their pages in months.

Another advantage of a nightstand full of books is the comfort of having a wealth of human stories, wisdom and experience at just an arm's length away. I can lay in bed and grab the biography of Eleanor Roosevelt for a quick fix of inspiration or Fault Lines for a momentary trip back to South Africa.

When the nightstand does not get cleared off for months or years at a time (see exhibit #4, above), it becomes a story in and of itself. It is the story of the reader's curiosities. It is a record of what they have been learning about and thinking about and what stories they have been privy too. If you could see all the titles of the books on my and on my parents' and on my uncle's nightstands, you would learn a lot about us.
 

In analyzing my nightstand - besides the immediate implications of titles like Be Honest, You're Just Not That Into Him Either and Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy and The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down - I have begun to accept that maybe it is ok not to read all my books all the way through (or even to internalize all of them while I sleep). I can interact with books in many different ways. The collection itself tells me something about my goals and values and preferences and interests and desires. 

And right now my primary desire is to read more.

A Grown-Up Christmas

I was going to become an adult this Christmas.

I was going to buy and hang Christmas lights on the outside of my house.

I purchased a $10 box of icicle lights from Walgreens three weeks ago, and since then there has not been one day when I have been home when it was still light out, and not not one night when I have been home when it wasn't raining. (No offense, Seattle. I still love you.)

Finally this afternoon, my home teachers came over with a ladder. It was too short. Knowing that there are no exterior plugs around the house, I had previously purchased a little socket thing that screws into the flood light. It did not conduct electricity at all. I am leaving to go home in two days anyway, so I gave up my three-week battle, thanked my home teachers, and cursed the Grinch for trying to keep Christmas from coming to my little house.

The bigger disappointment is that I did not get to claim this rite of passage. There have been many moments in the past decade when I have thought, "Ah Ha! Now I am an adult!" For example, I had that thought the first time I:

• Drove a 15-passenger van full of teenage girls
• Bought a toaster oven
• Filled out my own tax return form
• Drove a drunken undergrad to the ER 
• Used my ID to get into a club
• Received a Christmas card that was addressed just to me
• Signed a lease
• Bought lingerie for a friend's bridal shower

While those activities did make me feel very grown up, this Christmas light endeavor was particularly exciting to me. For the first time, I have a sense that where I live is (semi-) permanent and I want to invest in it. That seems very adult. So does wanting to contribute to the overall aesthetic of my neighborhood.

There is also something that feels very "old" in taking over a tradition that used to belong exclusively to my parents; my dad has always put up the exterior lights for our family. Overall it feels grown-up to try to create Christmas where I live and not just wait to experience Christmas until I go home to my parents' collection of music, decorations and lights. Like an adult, I am trying to own Christmas in my current home.

It looks like I will have to wait until next year to work out all the kinks so that I can finally hang up my exterior lights. Then I will be able to say, "Ah Ha! Now I am an adult!" one more time.

Comedic Timing?

I unintentionally made an entire movie theater laugh last weekend.

I was at the movie Red. We were all engrossed in its tranquil opening scenes when out of no where the bad guys appeared on screen, and I gasped out loud.

Really loudly. In fact, it may have been more like a combination yelp/scream.

At first when people started to laugh, I thought that I had missed something funny in the split second that I had yelped and closed my eyes. But when I asked my date why everyone was laughing, he said:

"They're laughing at you!"

Oops. At least this time I did not leave the theater with a bruised elbow. That happened in another movie when bad guys startled me, and I banged my funny bone on the plastic cup holder.

I blame my jumpiness on my younger brothers, who spent our growing-up years hiding behind doors and in hallways waiting to spring on me.

They would also laugh at my tormented reaction, but then they would get pummeled.

I almost pummeled my roommate the other day when I screamed like a baby when she walked through the front door. I was engrossed in the mail, and she was wearing a hood. I don't think she thought it was very funny.

But no one got pummeled at the movie theater, and I was happy to offer the afternoon-movie-goers some additional entertainment.

(N.B. Please excuse the sheep costume in the picture. It was the closest thing I had to a surprised/shocked/startled shot.)

It's All So Magical

I used to dislike Halloween.

It enables the proliferation of 3 things I do not like: stereotyping of large groups of marginalized people, the sexualization of women, and gore. Plus coming up with a costume that is unique enough, cute enough and modest enough is stressful.

However, my Halloween-loving roommates have completely changed my view of this holiday. Their ghoul parties, witch parties and dance parties have made this a season of whimsy and magic. Their creativity makes Halloween feel more enchanted than frustrating.

Because of the many festivities, for each of the past two years, I have had to have three costumes. It's been a blast, and my roommates' large supply of costumes, craft skills and make-up artistry have significantly decreased all costume-related stress.

2009
(From left to right)
70's lady in a 70's dress - My friend Laney and I wore matching wigs to the dance party
Ghoul - A group of friends gathered for a "spooky dinner"
Disco Dancer - Yep, same wig but different dress for another party

2010
(From left to right)
Sheep - I was one of seven sheep and and the cotton gluing took hours and then littered the dance floor
A "Tea Party" - As in the political movement. Ha!
Witch - 30 of us gathered for "spooky food" then a witches' stroll through a local bookstore

Many more pictures of things such as the "flock of sheep" and a "close-up of the witch's moles" can be found on facebook.

Sharing the Love

Today is my grandma's 87th birthday. She passed away about four months ago, on the day that I left for South Africa. The last time that I spoke to her was from a payphone in the Atlanta airport. She could not speak, but my dad, who was with her at the time, said that she responded to my voice. She died just a few hours after my plane took off.

My dad feels strongly that her final act of love for me was waiting to die until I was too far away to come back; if she had died before I had left the States, I probably would have delayed or canceled the trip to attend her funeral. Grandma also loved to travel, and I know that she was thrilled that I got to fulfill my dream to go to the World Cup.

I love rituals and believe that they are such an important part of the healing process, so missing the funeral was hard for me. I wanted to able to mourn with my family and to celebrate her life with them. Even though everyone was extremely supportive, not being there felt more like an act of betrayal to my living family than to her.

What I wasn't able to say then, I want to say now, to commemorate her birthday. Grandma and I were kindred spirits. We are both tall. Both of us love to read and travel. She did not marry until she was 30. Both of us are women with opinions. But when I think about what has really connected us it is that we love and get excited about so many of the same things. So much of what I love in life is because of her: she shared her passions with me until they became my own.

The things on this list of shared loves include everything from Highway 1 to Barbara Streisand to tree-picked oranges to Julia Child to camping on the beach to Diet Dr. Pepper to cut roses in a glass bowl. Here are some of the most significant things that I love because Grandma Bea loved them first:

Nordstrom. This was her favorite department store, and most of the gifts she gave me were from there. She loved taking me there to pick out a "special something." Nordstrom was emblematic of her appreciation for refinement and elegance. She did not have a large quantity of wealth or material possessions, but what she did have was always lovely. Everything from her collection of 1950's hats to the pitcher (no jug) of milk on the kitchen table was classy.

Christmas Eve. Bea was born in the United States but is 100% full-blooded Norwegian, and for Norwegians, Christmas Eve is probably the most important nights of the year. On that night, she always ensured that the table was perfectly set, that the traditional foods - spare ribs, baked potatoes, sukor - were prepared, and that we were all dressed in Sunday best. It has always been a sacred evening for our family that everyone anticipates every year.

Family History. Grandma was a key link in the generations of Jacobsens. She felt a special mandate to preserve the family legacy as well as to keep in touch with her many nieces and nephews. Grandma adored her parents and 5 siblings, and she helped all of us to develop a great love for them through her stories and family artifacts. A favorite of mine was a signed letter from the King of Norway thanking her mother for the dramatic recitation she performed for him. I loved hearing her talk about the times her family spent at the Grand Tetons in Jackson Hole - the place that reminded them the most of Norway, and the location of our most recent family reunion.

Classical Music. Bea's father and older brother were both violinists; it was violin music that actually brought her family into the Mormon church in Norway. She was thrilled when I started playing the violin at age 7, and when I was 16 she gave me her Lladro porcelain statue of a little girl playing the violin. Her home was always full of great opera or classical music, and I loved hearing her sigh of contentment and nostalgia when was listened to her favorite pieces.

I miss having Grandma around to cheer and support me: she always made it clear that she was a huge Jen fan, as she was of all her grand kids. But I know that having so much around me of what we both love will keep us close.

Letters, In Brief, From the Past Few Months

Dear Cheerios,
When I eat you with fresh peaches, I am perfectly content.

Dear Public Radio,
I apologize for not giving this year during the fall pledge drive. I am trying to furnish my new place, and I thought you would understand.

Dear mattress,
You smell like mildew. Gross.

Dear dryer,
I can't believe you melted my mattress pad!

Dear Ikea,
Every time I go into your store, I wish I was living that scene from the movie 500 Days of Summer.

Dear Beyonce,
I hope it pleases you to know that the very first song I listened to once I got a new car stereo installed - after two long months of absolute silence - was If I Were A Boy. I blasted it and I sang and I was happy.

Dear Mark Zuckerburg,
Even though it's hard to like you after seeing The Social Network, I think you would make a great therapy client. Together we could discover the roots of your douchiness. Please let me know if you are interested - it would be an honor.

Dear Elder Uchtdorf,
Thank you for telling me to stop being so busy. I feel relieved and more relaxed, and I love having free evenings.

Dear Supreme Court,
Thank you for making our elections even less democratic. Every time I hear a story like this and am reminded of your Citizens United decision, I want to punch you in the face - collectively.

Dear President Obama,
I am so excited that you are coming to the University of Washington, but could you please reschedule the rally so that it is in the evening and not during the work day?!

Dear Seattle Sounders FC,
Thank you for scoring that third goal and ensuring us all free haircuts.

Dear high school students,
The sounds of your ukuleles as you walk up and down the halls between class periods is bizarre, yet strangely soothing.

Dear running,
I am sorry that I hated you for so long. I realize now that I was not giving you a fair shot with all that intermingled walking. Your endorphins are really quite wonderful.

Dear Tacoma Narrows Bridge,
You thought you were sneaky, but I finally found your toll and avoided your $55 ticket. Ha! Third time's the charm.

South Africa Changed Me

I floss my teeth now.

It is not because South Africans have particularly good or bad dental hygiene practices.

It is because while I was there, I realized that I put a lot of effort into doing big things. I go to the World Cup in Africa! Direct Girls Camp! Bike down the Pacific Coast!

But I am not as good at the small routine things of everyday life, like flossing. I want to do better at the parts of living that are not big and showy. I want to learn how to get out of my bed without pushing snooze three times. I want to write letters to my missionary brother more frequently. I want to do laundry before there are no underwear left in my drawer.

Traveling (partly) alone in a foreign country could seem like a foreboding challenge. For me, committing to a routine of small tasks - like teeth flossing - is way more scary. I have always associated routine with entrapment and boredom; it is as if I've been anticipating a mid-life crisis since I was 14 years old.

However, last week, I started a full-time job as a clinical therapist. For the first time in my 29 years, I will not be on an academic schedule. I will work 9 to 5, five days a week and have three weeks of vacation.

Before my trip, the thought of this impending schedule caused me great anxiety. But I am trying to embrace it. I am ready to commit to regularity. I am ready to floss daily.

I know I can do big and spontaneous. Now I want to do know that I can do - and hopefully enjoy - small and routine too.