Dear Disney, You and me have had some good times. You've made me laugh, you've made me cry, and you've touched me, right here, in my blood pumpy chambers. Quite a bit of my childhood memories are tied to you Disney, to evenings cuddled with me mam, watching the Disney movie of the week, going to the tiny video rental between the hair stylists and Roses to get Sleeping Beauty for the umpteenth time, or watching DTV's Monster Hits every Halloween. I remember when your animation didn't suck, and you weren't whoring out skinny blonde tweens (I maintain Haley Mills wasn't nearly as irritating as the kids they have now, and Annette was a brunette, not to mention that they had more talent in their little pinkies than most of the youngsters today).
But Disney, it's been a long time since you've been great. In fact, as of late, you've pretty much sucked balls, and the only reason you haven't had to declare bankruptcy is that you've been piggy-backing on Pixar's talent. In an age where nostalgia sells for millions every day, why have you shooed Mickey, Goofy, Donald, Chip and Dale into the dark cobwebby closet of the "Disney Vault"? Disney, you have become that crusty old dragon, muttering to itself, hoarding its gold. It's always collecting more, but never using those sparkling gems and shiny ingots for any kind of purpose other than a very uncomfortable bed.
Disney. For serious. Stop it.
I miss who you were, and abhor who you've become. While I'll never forget the good times, I don't think we can see each other anymore. Good luck with your future endeavors; I wish you the best.
So I recently turned 25 years old, which officially kicks off my quarter-life crisis. I'm pretty excited about this, y'all.
I have been discussing with my lady friends, and we agree that as we get older, it's not just a cute face that turns our heads, but mmmmm, he has a job that pulls in more than twenty thousand a year? Oooh, he has health insurance, his own car, and isn't paying off a mountain of debt? Uuuuuggghhhnnn, did you say HOMEOWNER, OH MAN, I'M DONE.
I had always thought that we had evolved beyond those base instincts that drive us to find the most virile and suitable mate, but, and don't tell anyone, I think I may have been wrong, just a bit.
I suppose it's the result of living paycheck to paycheck for the last five years, but personally, I'm ready to get a "real" job, one that has a regular weekly schedule, weekends off, benefits, health insurance, and nets me more than the $17,000 a year I make now (which, really, after taxes? Maybe $15,500. That's a depressing thought, innit?). A lot of folk I know who graduated college have tried the real world and gone running back into the warm bosom of school life because it was just too effin' hard trying to make it in this economy. The rest are still grinding out a sad existence working jobs they hate that have nothing to do with what they went to school for. But, before I get off on a tangent about how craptastic the school system is, and how for the thirty thousand bucks you shell out for an education, they fall very short of actually preparing you for the transition to adulthood and marketing yourself to employers, let me get back to the original topic.
You know what else has invited themselves to the crisis party? My biological clock. Oh, hey ovaries, you mean you serve a purpose other than torturing me five days out of the month? You also quietly, but insistently, whisper fantasies and elaborate storylines involving BABIES, ME AND BABIES, ME HAVING BABIES, ME RAISING BABIES, CHRIST HAVE YOU SEEN THOSE BIRTHING VIDEOS, ARE YOU TRYING TO REND ME ASUNDER?
You want to know how bad it is? I've started a list. A list of baby names. For boys and girls. And you know what? I'm not the only one. Your girlfriend? Is she of a certain age? Does she often get a faraway look in her eyes when there are cute babies about? During conversation does she interject with the phrase, "(Blank) would be a great name for a boy/girl, don't you think?" Then guess what. She's got a list. She's got a list, and it won't be long before she's evaluating your ability to PROVIDE and contemplating your FUTURE together, your FUTURE with BABIES.
Do you see all those capital letters? This is serious business. Have you seen Look Who's Talking? Brilliant film. Is still my reference for sperms and eggs gettin' together and baby-makin'. Do you remember that scene where Kirstie Alley has day-mares about her biological clock, the thunderous ticking, and clinging to the clock face hand miles above traffic like she was Harold Lloyd?
Yup. That's about right. I imagine it's going to get worse the closer I get to thirty, not to mention complicating the emotions I have about getting married, pregnant, being a mom, etc. Just typing this now, I'm feeling pretty overwhelmed.
You know what embodies nearly all of this post?
The one thing that comforts me during these times is that I know I'd be a great mom, thanks to my own wonderful mother and having EDUCATION and knowing about OPTIONS. I also have to admit that the years I've been living vicariously through Heather Armstrong's blog as she lives in Salt Lake City raising her daughters and dealing with postpartum depression and anxiety disorders has been a fantastic tutorial. It's a feeling that if she can deal with the amped up insanity of raising a very particular four year old and a newborn along with her own health problems, then I will be totally okay because I've been privy to WOMEN SECRETS that aren't really discussed until you are of a certain age. Now that I'm of that certain age, I find that I've learned a lot, but that there is still a ways to go.
