Surprise Serenade

It’s warm in the evenings this week. So hot it makes my neighbors talk about the weather while I walk my dog in the morning. “It’s gonna be 90,” said the man who collects recycling as he bikes dumpster to dumpster.

I opened all the windows yesterday  in our apartment and considered purchasing a fan for the summer. It’s only April. Last night, I had the TV on low waiting for John to arrive so we could watch the Clippers game at a nearby bar. The apartment was dark because any light seemed to generate heat. And then I heard it. What I thought initially was someone’s radio was the sound of someone playing guitar. Across the street, separated by a small parking lot was a man on a bench playing guitar. In the fluorescent light of the laundromat he sat in front of, he played music on his electric guitar that carried across the neighborhood through the small amplifier in the seat beside him.

It reminded me of New Orleans. The live music at almost any time of day and night throughout the French Quarter. It was my favorite part of my favorite city I’ve visited so far. John and I would be walking back late to our hotel room on Royal or Frenchmen Street and someone would be singing or playing music. The night sticky and humid but neither one of us too in a hurry to get back to air-conditioned rooms. There’s no music in those rooms.

I turned the TV off in the apartment and found myself standing on our balcony listening to this impromptu concert. Funny, since a serenade is music played in the air, often by a man to his lover beneath a window. By then the evening had cooled a bit and faint traces of cigarette smoke lingered in the air courtesy of the chain smoker in the parking lot. The guitar player would take breaks every now and then–short–but those moments of silence pierced the night air with loneliness. It was as if last night, a misplaced summer evening, required music. The heat would diminish, but each pluck and strung of the man’s guitar felt like a coda to a day that just wasn’t quite ready to end. I stood leaning over the railway completely engrossed in the music. I always find it comforting that strangers can have such an effect on people. Street musicians and their gifts of harmonic distraction in an otherwise dull day of sounds.

Later, we would find ourselves in the parking lot on the way to the game reconsidering leaving at all. As we drove past the man, I told John to roll down his window. Just a little bit more I insisted, not wanting it to end.

I’m in the living room now, windows wide open, waiting for a man who isn’t my lover.

The Edge of 30

The year my sister and I turned 23 we were home alone in LA. We hadn’t planned it that way. But for some reason, after all the bleeps and pings of online notifications and texts of birthday greetings, we found ourselves just the two of us at home. My brother was out and so were our parents. Grandma was probably dancing somewhere and our dogs long past the point of playful and dozing off.

We thought maybe to call some girlfriends or go out for a drink, but our house is never quiet. There was something peaceful about watching nothing important on TV and letting another birthday slip by without too much fanfare. I”m sure we went to dinner the next night with family, but that night, my sister and I sprawled across the living room couches and let the hours pass.

We would spend the next few years marking our birthday milestones with a lot of activity and liquor. Renting a beach front room in Huntington and flying kites while tipsy (25). A Pink and White party we classed up with sangria and a Pinterest-heavy motif (27). Maybe it was to make up for that one seemingly lackluster birthday, but as I got deeper into this time called my late twenties, I found myself wishful for just a quiet birthday without too much attention.

I chalked it up to typical aversion to being that much closer to 30 and having to put myself into a whole new bracket: 18-24, 25-29, 30-impending doom. I used to think turning 30 was so old. Now I’m just terrified that I don’t qualify. I don’t feel like I’ve earned my adulthood. There’s a realness to these years where “I’m figuring things out” or “I’ll just see how this job goes” feels lame and inadequate. It’s as if ADULT is a costume and I’m playing at it. Though, I’m somewhat comforted by older peers who insist they haven’t gotten it all down. If that’s the case, give me your 401K and mortgage. That’ll get me in the adult club right?

Last night, on my 29th birthday, I spent most of it by myself. I met John later for rock climbing (there needed to be some sort of activity involved) and dinner. I insisted we stop at Ralphs to get a slice of cake so the day would feel birthday-y. Yet earlier that day, I was busy job searching, taking care of some party planning (for someone else), leaving the dishes and the laundry for tomorrow because birthdays aren’t for chores, and trying to feel some excitement. Instead, I kept thinking about my 23rd birthday and somewhere around 3 o’clock, I sat on the couch and caught up on Mad Men.

It was amazing.

It was quiet, strangely peaceful, and any anxiety I’d had about the last year and insecurity about adulthood slipped away. I don’t have it all figured out. I’ve maybe had a dozen mild crises this past year regarding my professional life. I’m not anywhere near where I thought I would be at 29, but lying there letting the hours pass felt right. Tomorrow, I told myself, I’ll worry about it tomorrow.

Maybe when I’m 39 the costume will fit better.