It’s come to my attention recently how strange our society is… I know I know, just now, Kallie? Grow up. I guess, rather, it’s come to my attention how age seems to make us all experts in nothing. We get older and look down our noses at the young and project advice and dead hopes on to them, then as we shrink in body we grow in grandiosity and forget our fallibility, we then physically start to look up to the younger and still give unsolicited advice as if our lives are theirs and we forget, don’t we? We forget what it is like to be young, or heart broken, or full of hope…once we have something, we forget what’s it’s like to not. Now if you just rolled your eyes at the hypocrisy of this post, you’d be within your right. I write this as a still “young adult” as the people who define psychological ages would say, and boy howdy am I clinging to my last 3 years of young adulthood. I write this as someone who gets unsolicited advice daily from drunks, meth addicts, wide old people, people barely 4 years older than me, parents, siblings, friends, and the like. I write this as someone whose eye twitches when I hear the words “you have time”. I know I have time! There is still a left half of my brain fully functioning and in fact, working, even. I know that biologically I’ve got time, mentally… well I guess that depends on the day you ask me. I’d also like to point out something to the people who do give me advice-I love you. Most of the time I am lost without advice. I can hardly even pick out a date night dress without at least 3 opinions and then I end up choosing what I want anyway… Usually (it is the nights I don’t go with my gut I really regret and inwardly cringe when I think back on them). Hell, this post will be read by two or more people before I feel hyped and validated enough to put it out onto the ethernet (Hello, Brooke!) AND I am not saying that I don’t ever want advice, I’m more speaking out about the unsolicited advice from people who are in different situations and have forgotten. Now I know what you’re thinking, “oh here we go on another moody rampage about age and men and the inner monologue of a very lost girl…” and you’re right; so either strap in or get off the ride.  

I was recently in a waiting room with a nice old man who went on a too often heard tangent to the young receptionist about her high heels and how they were only acceptable if she was practicing to be a ballerina; you’d think a spot light was on him with a snare drum that went off in cinematic style the way he made the “eh eh” face, just dying to elbow her in the ribs and nudge an uncomfortable laugh out of her (I won’t go off about old men and their expectations of young ladies, yet…). Admittedly, dear reader, I am adult enough to say that my annoyance didn’t stem from this old man and his apparently failed stand up career, nor his following advice in rapid fire with gems such as “just wait until you get to the age where you shrink, you’ll need heel then”, or “I prefer a human to a machine, you’re human, aren’t ya? You seem young enough to help an old man with a machine”, or my personal favorite “with pants like that you should be a picnic blanket!” (She had on checkered pants). I’m not sure if it is worth mentioning this young lady did not laugh at one of his jokes and I’d like to imagine him going to his local watering hole after and complaining about “pretty young things” with no personality or who just don’t have the same sense of humor that they used to. Perhaps this is unfair, but a small part of me likes to imagine old men in golf caps commiserating about not getting “no respect” from their easiest target and often loudest laughs in the past. But that is sort of the point, isn’t it? They forget what it was like to be young and the laughs they got out of young women wasn’t necessarily because they were a regular old Will Rogers (shameless hipster plug to get you to read about Native American stand-up comedians as that is my latest obsession), rather they were laughing because their eggs had a shelf life and good men are hard to find (here I’d like you to note that my painted red nails are firmly up to my forehead in a “woe is me” gesture and I feel very 50s chic). And so these men, women, whathaveyou continue with these maladaptive patterns that got them somewhere at some time, or one time, and continue to give advice about it. “Lighten up, sweetheart, it was a joke”, “It wouldn’t kill you to laugh a little”, and “you know… You’d be much prettier if you smiled”. These are all patronizing remarks from people who have forgotten something: what year it is, who they are speaking to, that no one asked them, or (God forbid) that they aren’t actually funny.

Think about it, though. Do you remember… reallyremember what it was like to even be 16? I remember acne and self-loathing… a lot of homework… feeling like every decision I made was the end of the world (oh, wait, am I describing being 30?). But I have forgotten what it is like… I have forgotten the things I don’t experience anymore. I’m not 16 so to try and empathize as a 31 year old woman who successfully (that’s arguable) made it past 16, with a 16 year old girl talking about “well in my day…” would be a supreme waste of time and mental effort. So, why yes it is a funny nonstarter to say “just wait until…” and put preconceived notions of an age, or stage, or (should I say rage to make it Dr. Suess worthy?) Life event, it often times feel more patronizing and nerve wracking for the listener. Like…No, Grand-pappy, I don’t want to end up alone like your high school sweetheart who also didn’t laugh at your jokes or smile in 1912 and no, I don’t need to know what YOU think it’ll be like in my mid 30’s because, bitch, I’m not there yet. I don’t need to know your experience as if it were my own. I don’t need you to tell me about how women used to be, or even what most of them become when they are yourage. Just tell me about your experience separately, or listen openly as I tell you mine and let’s enjoy each other’s uniqueness in that way: symbiotically.

I digress… heavily…my frustration didn’t stem from this nice old man and his failed stand up in the small office of a dermatologist. It stemmed from my own life and personal shit (I’d pardon my foul language but as I just admitted… I’m moody, get over it). My patience is at an all-time low, and that isn’t helped at all by the litany of unsolicited advice I’ve been receiving lately, and the sheer stupidity of people who seem to have forgotten to pass the “Logic Go” and collect $200. I’m no better than anyone else, and I’m sure somewhere there is a scientific reason for humans doling out advice and acting superior when someone is hurt (in fact, much like our ability to lie, I’m sure that it has to do with building community and our nurturing side and trying to protect the tribe or some cave man bull shit). I knew the moment that old man heard crickets from the young picnic pants girl what I needed to get out to the Matrix or whatever we are reading on now with this new-fangled technology… I knew that I wanted to ask, nay, implore people: stop handing out advice like ecstasy at burning man, to stop giving people your opinion like an innocuous but annoying STI running rampant on a college campus, to stop trying so hard to make clever analogies so that people think you’re funnier than you are angry… oh, that last one was personal, I’ll take that back.

You can call it what you’d like; a scorned woman on a tirade about men, the 13-year-old angry girl who was taught she was easier to palate when she was quiet, or even the heart broken woman who can’t be trusted to be rational currently while her limbic system is hot, and the right brain is firing on all cylinders with emotions that feel suffocating. But if you get down to brass tacks what this is about is… what, Kallie? Staying in your own lane? Nihilism? Telling you, yet again dear reader, that I am angry and don’t know how to deal? Maybe. Then again maybe not. Maybe it is just the end of the rope of being told how to act, how to be, what to do, how to run, what to do with my hair (that one isn’t all true, Kiki, please tell me what to do with it), or any of the like. Eventually my brain will cool, and I will be able to exhibit more self-control, but for now… let a girl be angry, angsty, and sad! Let your friends vent to you and just say “preach, girl” or “I’m sorry to hear that” instead of trying to fix anything. You would be amazed the power of just listening and sitting with someone who is sad or angry or frustrated and just being there. It is human to want to try and fix our loved ones, I know that, but I don’t need old people telling me that I’m young still, I don’t need young people telling me I’m young still. I know I’m young, but my logic isn’t ready to sit down at the adults table yet. My logic is currently napping while my emotions are flipping the kids table over after losing a game of Uno.

So, no, I don’t want to know what it was like at your age. No, I don’t want to hear what it was like when you were in my position. And HELL NO, I don’t want to smile. But thanks, so much, for stopping by.