Even before you can see the train, the tracks start to sing, a siren call I can’t completely ignore. I don’t think I’d go out like that though, the idea of getting hit by a train sounds painful.

Isn’t it strange how the physical body still fights for life even when the mind has let go. Blood clots, lungs gasp for air, limbs try to flail back to safety. Killing yourself isn’t cowardice, it’s a war against your every reflex, your every cell. But, of course, in war, there are no winners, not really. Someone always loses something.

Is my body electric? I don’t always hear its song, but I do hear the tracks sing. I sing the railroad electric. Some people might hear a warning.

I hear a lullaby.

I can hear the train from my kitchen window. Not the tracks, but the muted rumble as the train rolls through town, too fast, too busy to stop. Sometimes the horn blows; that means someone is on the tracks. Usually it’s someone rushing to cross, too impatient or too intoxicated to wait. But once in a while, it’s a sailor on the rocks, a willing audience to the siren’s song.

Not me.

Not yet.

Maybe I’ll stay out of the water, safely out of reach. I’m not a great swimmer. I’m better on land.

Usually.

I think.

What do any of us really know about ourselves anyway? I hate that I sometimes feel like the tracks know me better than I know myself. They know what I won’t admit I want. They sing to me, soft and sweet. Waiting.

Always waiting.

I learned French to impress you but you were never impressed. You said my v’s were too soft, their hard edges too flowery when I said, “voila.” Not you, never you. Yours were perfect, or so you said. Even as I ran my v’s between my teeth and lip, sharp against my soft flesh, you said they weren’t good enough. I believed you, even though I knew I’d said it correctly.

I went to France and apologized for my terrible pronunciation, my soft f’s that should’ve been hard v’s. The French stared at me, confused, and told me they understood me perfectly. I’d said it correctly. I told myself they’d just misheard me, I must’ve been wrong and they were just being polite. After all, the French are notorious for being polite.

Even still, you insisted I was wrong. My v’s cut into my lip like an electric carving knife, but it wasn’t enough. I never was.

Chapter 1

      A white minivan swung into the Denny’s parking lot, nearly running over a young man on a motorcycle. The guy on the motorcycle threw up a middle finger and pulled his bike into the spot next to the minivan, which bore a sticker proudly proclaiming “Proud Parent of an Honor Student!” The man on the motorcycle pulled off his helmet and waited for the woman in the minivan to finish fixing her lipstick in the mirror and get out of her car.

     “Nice driving,” the man said when she finally opened her door.

     “Sorry, D,” she said lightly, her voice devoid of the slightest bit of remorse. “I was trying to save you from that god awful motorcycle.”

     “What’s wrong with my bike?” the man asked, offended.

     “Seriously?” she asked. “That color is hideous. Couldn’t you have picked something like black? The Black Death was one of our better joint ventures. This . . . god, why did you pick that color?” she asked, wrinkling her nose as she leaned closer to examine the putrid, yellow-green color.

     “It reminds me of the color of a corpse,” he said with a shrug. “Think of it as a power color. Besides, I couldn’t pick black,” he said as he pointed to black Ferrari parking at the other end of the lot, as far away from the other cars as possible. “Famine would’ve thrown a shit fit.”

     The woman nodded and sighed heavily.

     “I can’t argue with that,” she agreed.

     The two watched as Famine, a tall, thin man with slicked back black hair, climbed out of the Ferrari. He buttoned his suit and, noticing the two, walked over to them across the parking lot.

     “Could you have parked any further away?” the woman asked.

     “What the hell is wrong with your hair?” Famine asked. “That short haircut on you is not flattering.”

     “Hey, I have to blend in,” she snapped, reaching up a hand to touch the swooping, overly styled hairdo. “Do you have any idea how popular this style is with soccer moms? It’s like they have a secret rule book they all pass around to each other that requires them to get this haircut or someone will take their minivan away.”

     “You look like you’re about to complain to a manager,” Famine said with a smug smile.

     “Oh, fuck off, Famine,” she said.

     “Do either of you know what this meeting is about?” Death interjected, not really wanting to listen to yet another argument between those two.

     “No,” Famine said, looking slightly uncomfortable for the first time. Pestilence shrugged nervously, shifting her purse to the other shoulder. “Do you?”

     “Nope,” Death said. An uncomfortable silence hung between them. “Should we go inside?”

     “I think we should wait for War,” Pestilence said, running a nervous hand through her hair. “Strength in numbers and all that.”

     At that moment, an H2 redder than a stop sign roared into the parking, nearly popping up on two wheels as it took the turn, heavy rock music blaring from the stereo.

     “Speak of the devil,” Pestilence said, rolling her eyes.

     “Ha,” Famine said tonelessly, acknowledging the joke.

     The H2 swerved around them and screeched to a stop at the other end of the parking lot, only inches away from the Ferrari.

     “Jackass,” Famine mutter, glowering.

     A moment later, a young man in a tank top and camouflage shorts hopped out of the SUV, adjusting his visor as he walked over to join the group.

     “What’s up, bitches?” he said with a grin.

     “You’re late, War,” Pestilence said.

     He checked his watch.

     “Nuh-uh,” War said, twisting his wrist to show her. “I still have one minute.”

     “Well we better get inside, you know what happens when you keep her waiting,” Pestilence said impatiently.

     War shuddered, the smile on his face leaving as fast as his Hummer had arrived.

     “Any idea what this is about?” War asked as the four of them started to walk towards the front door of the diner.

     “Nope,” said Death. “Your guess is as good as ours.”

     “Well,” Famine said as he pulled the door open. “Let’s get this over with.”

     It only took a couple seconds for the four to locate the devil in the nearly empty diner. She sat in a booth at the back of the restaurant, four large plates of food in front of her. Her hair was long and blonde and tied up in a perky ponytail, her skin tanned and unblemished. She wore a white tank top emblazoned with sparkly, hot pink Greek letters for the Kappa Kappa Kappa sorority.

     “Ready?” Death murmured, taking a deep breath.

     “I guess,” Pestilence said as they made their way around the empty tables and chairs to reach the booth. When they arrived at the table, the four of them stood there, unsure of what to say or if they should sit down. The devil didn’t look up from her pancakes and the four began to shift nervously in the awkward silence.

    “Well sit down already, you look like fucking losers,” the devil said before she took a sip of her black coffee, still not looking up from the table. All four of them quickly slid into the booth. They sat silently as the devil took another bite of pancakes.

     “Are these for us?” War asked tentatively, cautiously reaching for a piece of bacon. The devil quickly lashed out her hand, quick as an asp, and smacked War’s hand away.

     “No,” she said. “I’ve been busy working, so I get to eat. You four, on the other hand, are just here to listen.” She swallowed her bite and set down her fork, wiping the syrup from her hands with a paper napkin.

     “Okay,” the devil said, looking up at them for the first time. “Christ, your current forms look stupid.”

     “We have to blend in,” Pestilence said timidly, self-consciously reaching up to touch her hair.

     “No, I get it,” the devil said. “But humans look especially stupid at the moment, so therefore you look especially stupid.” She took another sip of coffee. “Okay, enough small talk. You four are on my shit list.”

     No one said anything in response.

     “You have had so many opportunities to usher in the apocalypse and destroy the world. I mean, come on, between the four of you, it should be a no brainer. You starve the people,” the devil said, pointing to Famine, “you infect them,” she said, pointing to Pestilence, “you make them fight each other,” she continued, pointing to War, “and you kill them,” she finished, pointing to Death. “How hard are your jobs? I mean, for fuck’s sake, you should’ve finished this centuries ago.”

     “These things can take time,” Famine said hesitantly.

     “Yeah, I know the rule,” the devil said impatiently. “You have to work within the constraints of humanity to give them a fair chance to save themselves. But even so, it seems a little ridiculous that you haven’t made any significant progress.”

     “What about World War II?” War asked, brightening a little. Pestilence swiftly kicked him in the shin under the table. War grunted, but didn’t say anything further.

     “How many more times are you going to bring that up?” the devil asked, narrowing her eyes at War. “Yes, you convinced Hitler to exterminate millions of Jews. Yes, you got the United States to drop the atom bomb on Japan. But then what happened? The humans made the fucking Geneva Convention and now there are fucking Holocaust remembrance museums to try and prevent something similar from happening again.”

     “Plus they published that girl’s diary,” Pestilence added.

     This time, it was War’s turn to kick her in the shins.

     “Yes, exactly,” the devil agreed.

     “Well, what have you done lately that’s so great?” War demanded, glaring at Pestilence.

     “I’m bringing back preventable diseases!” Pestilence exclaimed. “Do you think it’s easy to get parents to compromise their kids’ healthcare? It took ages for me to get them to believe that MMR vaccine-autism bullshit!”

     “Can you get a vaccine to prevent war? No!” War exclaimed.

     “I’m sorry, are we forgetting AIDS?” Pestilence asked. “Where’s the vaccine for that?”

     “Meh, that’s not as effective as it once was,” Famine interjected. “It’s still killing people, but infection rates aren’t what they were.”

     “And what are you doing that’s so effective?” Pestilence demanded. “How is being a banker like that time you wiped out half of Egypt with a drought?”

     “I still do droughts!” Famine protested. “California doesn’t have any water!”

     “And yet they still all have swimming pools and bright green lawns,” Death said, rolling his eyes.

     “To answer your question, I’m doing plenty on Wall Street,” Famine said. “By slowly raising prices, I’m driving people into poverty so they can’t afford food.”

     “Enter school lunch programs,” Death said. “Fixed.”

     “Not all schools can afford those, haven’t you heard about all the cuts to education in this stupid country?” Famine asked. “I’m creating so many food deserts that foster poor nutrition!”

     “Okay, that’s enough,” the devil finally interjected. “There’s no use in fighting because you’re all fuck ups as far as I’m concerned. Which is why I called you here.” She began to stack her empty dishes on top of one another, neatly clustering her silverware on the top. The four waited until she was finished, wiping up a few stray drops of syrup from the table with a napkin.

     “I’ve had enough of your incompetence,” the devil said finally, tossing the balled up napkin on the stack of plates. “I have decided to give you one more chance to fulfill your duties as the Four Horsemen and usher in the apocalypse. One more big plan to destroy humanity and the world. If you fail, you’re fired.”

     The four stared at her, dumbfounded.

     “Fired?” Death asked.

     “Yes, fired,” the devil said. “So get your shit together. I’m going to check in on you soon and you’d better have a good plan in place.”

     The devil waved her hand, motioning for War and Death to scoot out of the booth so she could leave. They moved quickly, with War nearly falling on the diner floor. The devil pulled a wad of cash out of her pocket and tossed it on the table.

     “That’s not for you to order lunch, that’s for the server,” the devil said, pointing to the dollar bills. “I’m the embodiment of evil and even I think servers get fucked over.” With that, the devil turned and left the diner, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her, leaving the Four Horsemen alone to face her ultimatum. War and Death sat back down in the booth, but no one spoke at first. The waitress came by to collect the stack of plates.

     “Anything else I can get for you?” she asked brightly, her blue eyes tired.

     “No, thank you,” Famine said. He put his hand on the stack of bills and slid them towards her. “The lady who was here before left this for you.”

     “Oh, thanks,” the waitress said, her face brightening a little with a genuine smile. “Are you sure you all don’t need anything?”

     “We’re fine. But thanks,” Death said, flashing a brilliant smile at her. The waitress blushed and left.

     “Was it necessary to make yourself look like James Dean?” War asked, annoyed.

     “What?” Death asked innocently. “He’s not using this face right now.”

     “I bet that’s why you offed him,” War said, narrowing his eyes.

     Death shrugged.

     “So what if I did?” he asked.

     “Okay, that’s enough,” Pestilence interrupted. “You heard what she said. We have to bring about the apocalypse or we’re fired.”

     “Can we be fired?” Famine asked, confused. “I sort of thought we were it for the Horsemen.”

     “I don’t know, but she seemed pretty sure that we could be replaced,” Pestilence said.

     “Do you really want to find out?”

     “No, of course not,” Famine said, his tone testy.

     “Alright then,” Pestilence said. “We need to come up with some sort of plan.”

All four of them lapsed into silence, thinking.

     “I could create some kind of new super virus,” Pestilence offered.

     “Maybe,” War said slowly. “For this to work, we have to utilize all four of our skills. A new virus could work with Famine and Death, but I’m not sure where I’d fit in.”

     The table sank back into silence.

     “Could we blow something up?” Death asked War.

     “Technically yes, but working with the people currently in charge of the biggest bombs aren’t really all that likely to shoot off enough firepower to do real damage. I mean, that idiot in North Korea is, but his technology is so crap that everyone thinks he’s a joke.”

     “Could you help him with his technology?” Pestilence asked.

     “Sure, but I don’t think that’d be enough,” War replied.

     Famine stared intently at the table, thinking deeply.

     “You’re unusually quiet,” Death commented.

     Famine sat up a little straighter in the booth and looked up at the other three.

     “I was thinking about what War said about how the people currently in charge of the biggest bombs aren’t likely to use them. What if,” Famine said, the wheels visibly turning behind his eyes. “What if we got someone else in power? Someone who would be likely to use those bombs? If we could start another world war, the technology is strong enough to not only kill enough people, but the fallout could infect people and cause all sorts of nasty diseases.”

     “Where would you fit into all that?” War asked.

     “Well,” said Famine. “I might know a guy who could be perfect for president.”

     “President of . . . the United States?” Pestilence asked, her face agog. “Seriously?”

     “Seriously,” Famine said, his confidence growing in his idea.

     “America the ‘melting pot’?” Pestilence asked.

     “Oh yeah,” Famine said. “It’s diverse, but everybody hates each other.”

     “It’s true,” said War. “Even the so-called ‘hippies’ can be massive dicks to each other and blow up shit as eco-terrorists.”

     “Eco-terrorists?” Pestilence asked. “Nicely done.”

     “Why thank you,” War said, bowing slightly with his hands clasped in front of him.

     “Okay, enough about you,” Famine said. “Like I said, I think I know a guy.”

     “Who?” Death asked.

     “A businessman in New York,” Famine said. “He’s a billionaire who likes to pretend he’s a real estate mogul.”

     “If he’s only pretending, how did he get to be a billionaire?” War asked.

     “His dad was the real businessman,” Famine explained. “This guy inherited everything when his dad died and has driven himself into corporate bankruptcy six times.”

     “So then how is he still a billionaire?” War asked, still confused.

     “Tax evasion, offshore accounts, lots of corrupt deals overseas,” Famine said. “All the usual shit those rich guys always pull.”

     “Alright, so who is this guy?” Pestilence asked. “And why would Americans vote for him?”

     “His name is Oswald King,” Famine said.

     “Wait, didn’t he have a reality show?” War asked.

     “Yes, yes he did,” Famine agreed.

     “Which one?” Pestilence asked.

     “That one where they pretend like he’s the best businessman ever and people compete to be his protege,” War explained. “It sucked, so they turned it into a show where celebrities embarrass themselves for charity.”

     “Oh, right, I remember that one,” Pestilence said. “Is King the guy who overdoes it on the fake tan and dyes his hair that horrible bright red?”

     “Yeah, he looks like a burnt french fry dipped in ketchup,” Famine said.

     “Isn’t he kind of overweight?” Death asked.

     “Fine, a deep fried tennis ball dipped in ketchup, are you happy now?” Famine asked, annoyed.

     “Yes, very,” Death said.

     “Anyway,” Famine continued, “I think King could be our guy. He’s made some offhand comments in the media about running for president, although I suspect those statements were more for attention than anything else.”

     “What makes you think he’d really want to run for president?” War asked.

     “The guy’s a complete narcissist,” Famine explained. “He loves power and there’s no more powerful position on the planet than being the president of the United States.”

     “And you think he could win? He sounds awful,” Pestilence said.

     “Oh, he is. And yes, I do. He appeals to the insane fringe groups by running his mouth on social media sites like ChitChat and I think he’d create such a media circus that he’d be impossible to ignore during a campaign.”

     “So say we get him elected,” Death said. “Then what? You think he’s actually volatile enough to start a war?”

     “Oh, definitely,” Famine said. “He has the thinnest skin imaginable and his reaction to negative criticism is always volatile. Usually, he just threatens to sue everyone, but with the nuclear codes, he’d just bomb the shit out of everyone. Plus, because he’s an idiot, he’s very easily swayed. Especially when hungry.”

     “And you’re sure this will work?” Pestilence asked.

     “Well, no, of course not. I don’t think we can be sure of anything,” Famine said. “I’m open to suggestions, but this might be our best bet.”

     The table was quiet for a moment, considering this.

     “This plan is insane,” Death finally said.

     “Yup,” Famine agreed. “Completely.”

     The four of them lapsed into silence again.

     “Did I mention he’s an anti-vaxxer?” Famine asked.

     “Alright, fine,” Pestilence said. “But this better work.”

     “It does seem like this guy might be our best bet,” Death said. “But what happens if he loses the election? What then?”

     “I guess we can’t let him lose,” Famine said with a shrug. “It’s either that or we get fired.”

     “What exactly would that entail?” Pestilence asked.

     “Do you want to find out?” Death asked.

     Pestilence shook her head.

     “Do you think they’re still serving breakfast?” War asked suddenly.

     The other three stared at him.

     “What?” War asked. “Planning the apocalypse always makes me hungry.”

     Late one Saturday night last summer, I said the most profane thing that has ever come out of my mouth. To children, no less. The teenagers who live next door and a handful of their friends were standing on the road next to our house, talking and joking. They were just hanging out, but they were being really loud. Before I knew what was happening, I said it:

     “Come on, kids, it’s almost 10:00! Keep it down!”

     I am officially the old, uncool neighbor who shushes children. I’m only a housecoat away from sitting on the front porch and spraying them with a hose if they walk on my lawn. I’m like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino, but with purple hair and without the racism. I’m the curmudgeon next door. I’m Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace. I’m turning into every crotchety stereotype that wants to destroy the joys of youth.

     The realization of what I’d just said smacked me in my cantankerous face and I went back inside without bothering to wait for a reply from the kids or to check if they were, in fact, going to keep it down.

     “I’m officially uncool,” I told Jon.

     “Okay . . .” he said, not sure where to go from there.

     “I just yelled at the neighbor kids to keep it down.”

     Jon started laughing and agreed with me that yes, I was indeed old and uncool.

     This moment of my brain apparently shooting into adulthood without my permission seems ironic to me in light of the fact that my skin decided to go through puberty for the first time just a month shy of my 29th birthday. This is the part of the story when literally no one will feel sorry for me, but just before I entered the last year of my twenties, I got my very first acne breakout. I was extremely lucky to have avoided this during middle school and high school when everyone is an asshole. And honestly, I couldn’t have been in a better position to get my first breakout: I don’t have to impress a romantic partner because I’m already married so Jon’s stuck with me, and my two-year-old isn’t exactly judgmental of skin conditions. If anything, the redder my face is, the more I look like Elmo, so that’s a win for my son. Plus, I work from home, so if I wanted to, I could Miss Havisham this shit and never leave the house.

     I have spent so many years expounding the idea that women don’t need to wear makeup to be attractive or confident. If they want to wear makeup, great! If they don’t, that’s great, too. Honestly, it’s your face, do whatever you want with it. I still wholeheartedly believe this, but once my left cheek attempted to spell “help me” in braille, I found I felt far less confident going out in public without makeup than I used to. One day, Jon, our son, and I were on our way to meet a friend at a local bookstore, and I realized with a panic that I hadn’t put any makeup on. My acne was pissed off enough for Jon to actually notice it and recommend I see a dermatologist because it was so unusual for my skin. I felt so self conscious, and it took all of my restraint to keep from demanding Jon turn the car around so I could attempt to hide my blemishes under about a gallon of makeup. My next thought was that I felt vain and foolish for caring so much about my appearance. My currency in life is not my looks--I bring a lot more to the table than purple hair and formerly clear skin. Besides, I can say with complete certainty that the friend we were meeting that day didn’t care at all about what I look like. He’s an old family friend, and for all I know, he didn’t even notice my acne. Or he has a solid sense of social propriety and isn’t going to loudly ask what the fuck is wrong with my skin in the middle of a quiet bookstore cafe. Even so, I found myself turning my face so that the right, unblemished side was more pronounced than the angry left during our meet up. This overwhelming feeling of vanity made me feel like everything I’d been preaching for years was complete bullshit, and I spent most of the outing hating myself instead of actually enjoying a visit with our friend.

     I’d never realized before how much I took my clear skin for granted. Before this happened, I never really even washed my face with any kind of regularity outside of the shower, which is probably why my skin broke out in the first place. But I’d never had to--my skin was just naturally clear (I know, I know--no one feels sorry for me). After months of experimentation, I finally honed a skincare regimen for both morning and night that appeases my skin. At times, it makes me feel like my desperate attempts to clear my face are akin to pleading with my toddler to just go to sleep already--both are totally pointless endeavors as both my skin and toddler will ultimately do whatever they feel like doing. My face has mostly cleared up since the initial breakout, but now I’m facing the reality that although I got away with being lazy and entitled for years, that time is now gone. I’m almost thirty, I had a baby accompanied by the delightful cocktail of hormones that come with pregnancy, and my life and my circumstances are just different than they were when I was 20. I mean, I actually went out and bought a night cream for my face with retinol for fuck’s sake. I don’t even care about wrinkles! Or at least, I say I don’t now because I don’t have any. For all I know, my vanity will rear its ugly head at the first sign of crow’s feet, and I’ll end up staring at myself in the mirror, willing myself not to cry because it’ll make my eyes puffy. I’ve already accepted that I have gray hairs, but they showed up when I was 22, so I’ve had a minute to get used to them.

     Upon reflection, I find it kind of interesting that I’m much more resistant to a sign of adolescence than I am to a sign of aging. I suppose I could say that it’s because I’d rather move forward instead of backwards, but that sounds like I’m overthinking it. Hair is just hair and I can (and do) dye it all sorts of colors. My hair has been brown, black, blue, red, accidentally orange, blonde, hot pink, and the current purple. I’ve had bad haircuts and good haircuts, and, honestly, none of them really matter because they all grow out. My hair can always be re-dyed. Even if I eventually fry my hair or something happens and I need to shave it all off, I’m not really concerned. Hair is temporary and regenerative. I’m not really a hat person, but, if need be, I could shove it all under a hat or a scarf and call it a day. My skin, however, especially the skin on my face, is always there. I was incredibly fortunate to survive my teenage years without acne, but apparently that’s no longer my lot in life. Learning to embrace a more permanent part of myself is a lot harder than something transitory and easily altered.

     When I was a kid, I was really self conscious about a mole I have on the left side of my neck, down towards my collar bone. The mole isn’t big enough to qualify me for a sideshow, but it’s darker than the others I have and it’s slightly raised. I hated it so much as a kid, but over time, I learned to accept it and embrace it as part of my skin. When I was 24 or 25, I went in to see a dermatologist about two other weird moles on my back that I wanted to get checked for skin cancer because I was stupid and never wore sunscreen. The doctor noticed the mole on my neck and asked me about it. I told him it’d looked exactly the same since I was seven years old, so he shrugged and said that if that was the case, it probably wasn’t cancerous.

     “Want me to remove it anyway?” he offered.

     I didn’t even consider it, I automatically told him no, thank you, it was fine the way it was. It still is, in my opinion. It’s just a part of my skin and what I look like. I realize now that that mole is fine with me because I’ve chosen to embrace it. However, it’s a lot harder for me to embrace a recent change in my skin and the presence of acne, maybe because I haven’t had as long to accept it, or maybe it just boils down to me being more concerned about my appearance than I thought I was. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with caring about how you look; after all, I obviously care enough to dye my hair purple. My problem is that my concern over my looks started interfering in other areas of my life, like when I wanted to ask Jon to turn the car around so I could put on makeup, or how I turned my face away from our friend because I was embarrassed.

     The moment I stopped hiding my face came one night while I was putting my son to bed, about a week or so after we saw our friend at the bookstore. I was sitting next to my son’s crib and he’d just stood up, announcing, “Bye bye! All done! Bye bye!” in an effort to avoid bedtime. I was resting my face on my hand, a habit I’d begun to develop in an effort to conceal the breakout on the left side of my face. The fact that this was probably making the breakout worse didn’t escape me, but vanity trumped common sense. My son then turned to me and got a very serious look on his face as he stared at me. He then reached over and gently pushed my hand away from my face. Once I moved it, my whole face exposed, he smiled at me. Logically, I know that my two-year-old probably wasn’t trying to make some grand statement about me, but I felt something change in that moment. Suddenly, my concern shifted from wanting to look a certain way to wanting my skin to be healthy. I cared more about what was underneath rather than what was on the surface. My son loves me regardless of how I look because I’m his mom. I don’t want to raise him to be insecure about his outward appearance if he doesn’t fit some arbitrary beauty ideal; I want to raise him to be a good person. Really, he has started out pretty well, so my main goal at this point is just to not ruin the good that comes naturally to him. Part of me wonders how it is that my son already knows the value of what’s really important at such a young age. The other part of me wonders how I forgot it in the first place.

     My skin isn’t perfect, but neither am I. If given the choice, I’d rather embrace the opportunity to spend time with those I love instead of fighting off my own poor self-image. But if I ever falter and succumb to my own vanity again--as I’m apt to do because I’m human--I’ll reassure myself that if my skin ever gets really bad, I can always go buy a mask. That’ll really keep those goddamn neighborhood kids off my lawn.

As I write this, I’m currently two months away from turning 30 and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. I don’t mean that in an insecure “I’m staying 29 forever!” kind of way. Actually, I don’t mind turning 30. I guess part of me feels like once I turn 30, I’ll be taken more seriously. I’m not sure why I assume other people think I’m just a 20-something idiot, but 30 sounds far more respectable and mature than, say, 23. However, I had the same kind of thought process when I turned 20. I was thrilled to officially leave my teens behind because even though I was technically an adult at age 18, let’s be honest--no one considers an 18-year-old to be a responsible human. I know I sure as hell wasn’t. During my first semester of college, I was so broke that I could only put $4.65 worth of gas in my car (which, in 2005, was only about two gallons). You know you’re broke when you’re counting out nickels at a gas station and the attendant is trying to tactfully draw your attention towards the Take a Penny/Leave a Penny cup so you can purchase a full two gallons of gas, not just one and three quarters. The next day, I went to one of my classes and--surprise!--my professor told us that we needed to buy one more book for the class, a last minute addition to the syllabus. It wasn’t expensive, only about $15, but I had just spent my last $4.65 on gas and I was completely broke. I’d started a new job on campus, but it was a work study program which essentially meant they could pay me next to nothing, and my next next-to-nothing-paycheck wasn’t due to arrive for another week. Panicking that I wasn’t going to be able to buy the book in time and immediately flunk out of college during my first semester, I did the most adult thing I could think of--I called my dad and cried.

Ever since I was little, my dad has always tried to instill a sense of financial responsibility in me. I was required to save 20% right off the top of every allowance and every paycheck. He tried dozens of times to explain the stock market to me, but to this day, my eyes glaze over. When I was in high school, my dad even helped me set up a Roth IRA so that I wouldn’t have to eat cat food when I retired. However, despite all of my dad’s best efforts, I had burned through what little savings I had during my move to college and I was . . . well, I was at the point of counting out spare change for gas money. But my dad took pity on me and managed to keep the disappointment out of his voice that despite all his careful teachings, I was totally out of money ten minutes after leaving home and moving out on my own. A couple days later, an “I miss you!” card arrived with a $20 bill in it, along with instructions to buy the textbook and a hot dog. I had a meal plan so I wasn’t starving, but I think this moment is still a crucial one in my relationship with my father today. Not in an “oh, my dad always has my back!” kind of way, even thought I know he does, but more of a “my dad is convinced I’m perpetually starving to death” kind of way. Ever since this incident, my dad continually makes an effort to ensure I have food. It started in college with the $20 bill and subsequent care packages of snacks. The care package thing was my dad attempting to carry on the tradition of his mother, who routinely sent us random care packages. The difference, however, was that my grandmother would often open the box of cookies or crackers and eat a few before sending the rest to us. If these care packages had arrived from anyone else, I might’ve found it unsettling to receive open food containers. My dad, on the other hand, never sampled stuff before he sent it to me which meant I got the whole package of Oreos, not just 80% of it. When I graduated college, my dad, who lives two hours away, would still bring little care packages with him when he came to visit. It started with one plastic shopping bag with a pack of Oreos and a box of Cheez-Its and now, he brings a carload of groceries when he visits AND takes me to the grocery store (why yes, I AM an only child! How did you know?) I love that my dad does this because it’s his way of showing that he loves me and he wants to make sure I’m not engaged in some kind of standoff with my two dogs over who gets the last scoop of kibble. But I also think this is one of the most authentic signs that I’m getting older. When I was younger, I didn’t think food was a good gift. Now, the level of excitement I feel when my dad gives me groceries used to be reserved for the release of a new Harry Potter book. Sometimes, my dad will receive gift cards to Whole Foods, but since he doesn’t really care to shop there, he passes them on to me. I rarely shop there without a gift certificate because I have a hard time justifying spending $40 on one apple. However, if someone prepays for my shopping trip, I will happily prance around Whole Foods, loudly extolling the virtues of organic food while insisting that groceries from Whole Foods are “just so much better and really worth the extra cost” as soccer moms dressed in Patagonia nod approvingly.

When I was younger, I had this idea that life would get exponentially better as soon as I hit a certain age. When I turned 13, then things would be better because I wouldn’t be a little kid anymore, I’d be a teenager. When I turned 16, then things would be amazing because I could get my driver’s license. When I turned 18, then life would be fantastic because I’d be a real adult. When I turned 21, then I could be a cool adult because I could go to bars. Bars are mythical and wonderful when you’re under 21 but the closer you get to 30, the more you realize that everything is just sticky. Naturally, each time I hit these milestones, they didn’t really live up to the fantasy I had created in my head. In Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project, she references a study she read that talks about anticipatory happiness. We expect that we’re going to be happier when we celebrate a certain birthday/get a raise/move into a new house, but by anticipating that happiness, we’ve already experienced it so nothing really changes when we actually reach that milestone. The milestone itself doesn’t bring any new happiness because we’ve already spent the happiness points of that event, so to speak. This fairly accurately describes what happened to me each time I reached a new age that I thought was going to enrich my life in some fabulous way or be the turning point for me as a person. But I’m pretty sure that as I go forward, there isn’t going to be a birthday when someone will show up at my house with a gold star and exclaim, “Congratulations! You’re officially a functioning human!”

There seems to be some--admittedly self-imposed--pressure to have some life shit figured out by the age of 30. I don’t think it was always like this back when the average lifespan was about 35 before the invention of vaccines and hand washing. Back then, it was more impressive to have made it to 30 at all because that meant you’d managed to outrun all the wooly mammoths and smallpox. But now, it’s starting to feel like if you haven’t invented some super successful iPhone app and become a billionaire by 25, you’re a fuck up who is going to die alone in your parents’ basement. I had a mild panic attack about this just before my 10 year high school reunion which resulted in writing a whole book about feeling like a fraudulent adult. Now, two years later, I’m not sure if I feel any more like a real grown up than I did then, but I’ve found I care a little less about what other people think. I mean, I’m obviously still insecure enough to hope that people will take me more seriously as an adult once I’m 30 instead of 29, but now I don’t really care if people think that writing is a stupid profession and I should’ve gotten a more useful degree instead. But, to be fair, the people who think writing is a stupid profession seem to be the ones who have the hardest time reading big words, so as far as I’m concerned, they can all go fuck themselves.

A lot of my friends have already turned 30, and I’ve noticed a weird trend. Whenever they post photos about a 30th birthday, they’re all captioned with the hashtag #dirtythirty. I don’t know who in the Twittersphere or Instagramland started this idea, but I find it odd. I’m almost positive that it originated only because “dirty” rhymes with “thirty” and I’m simply overanalyzing it. But it still seems like a weird hashtag. Are 30-year-olds inherently dirtier than everyone else? Am I supposed to stop showering? Am I supposed to do something gross for my birthday? Is it supposed to be some kind of last hurrah before settling into responsible adulthood? I’m not sure what exactly this last hurrah would entail, but it sounds like I’d wake up smelling like old beer with glitter in my hair. I mean, I feel like I should probably do something to mark the fact that I’ve made it three whole decades on this planet without sticking a fork in a wall socket, but I’m probably not going to do anything big to celebrate. I’ll probably spend the day with my husband and son and later in the week, my best friend will take me to the movies like she does every year. We both take enormously large purses and sneak in our combined body weight in candy and Taco Bell, and then we purchase drinks the size of our heads and giant bags of popcorn that could double as tote bags. However, I’m not sure if this nagging feeling to close out my 20s with a bang is the result of an actual desire or due to social media pressure to have my own #dirtythirty. I’ve never been very excited about celebrating my own birthday, so this year doesn’t necessarily feel any different. I don’t begrudge my friends for wanting to celebrate their own birthdays in some monumental way, but that’s just not me. I think that’s really the benefit of getting older is that I’ve come to terms with what’s good for others isn’t necessarily good for me. For example, some people love to be the center of attention, whereas I get crippling social anxiety and fantasize about some sort of natural disaster interrupting the moment so the focus will finally be off me. We all have our thing. I’m not really interested in having a #dirtythirty kind of birthday, unless that’s in reference to the shame on my soul for eating so much fast food and candy at the movies.

I initially thought that my conflicting feelings about turning 30 had something to do with the way I look, but the more I think about it, the less I think that’s accurate. I in no way think that women “lose their looks” after age 29 because I’m not a misogynistic asshole. Even if I did think that and I was worried about using my looks to trap a man, I’m already married which means my husband is contractually obligated to find me attractive. I’m also not scared of gray hairs--I’ve had them since I was 22. Keep in mind, this was well before it was fashionable to dye one's hair gray. My grays are the result of soul-crushing anxiety, just as nature intended. But despite the gray hairs, when I was 26, I once got carded for a rated-R movie. Whenever I recounted this story to people, the response was invariably, “Oh, you’ll appreciate that when you’re older!” I know I’m only four years away from that incident, but I’m not sure I appreciate it or not. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who is enlightened enough to not care about their physical appearance--I’m vain as fuck and I spend more time than I’m willing to openly admit in front of the mirror and playing with makeup. But I’m not sure if it’s really a victory to be seen as being younger than my actual age. If I were in an industry that relied on my physical appearance such as modeling or acting, then maybe I’d consider this a bonus. But I’m a writer and as such, I could be a veritable troll and it wouldn’t matter. I just have to keep my brain functioning well enough to write stuff people want to buy. Of course, there’s also the fact that people are reading less and book sales are on the decline, but that’s a panic attack for another day.

I’m hoping that as I turn 30, I find myself a little older and wiser than I used to be, and I do--the only time I put $4.65 worth of gas in my car is when I’m stopping at the expensive gas station to get just enough to get me to the cheap gas station. But I also have a feeling that when I’m nearing my 40th birthday, I’m going to do this all over again and convince myself that turning 40 is when I really leave all those foolish mistakes behind me. But who knows? A lot can happen in a decade. So for now, I’m going to enjoy the Oreos my dad gave me during his last visit and binge watch Netflix with my husband while our kid sleeps soundly in the next room. Part of being a grown up is allowing yourself to do what you enjoy, and while I might not feel like I’m #dirtythirty, I do feel pretty happy, which is all we can really ask for. Well, that and enough change to fill up my gas tank.

Ideally, I prefer to write everything by hand in a notebook and then type it up later. It keeps me focused (and from constantly checking Facebook) and that method allows me to do a quick edit as I transcribe it to my computer.

When I was a kid, I loved to type everything up at on typewriters. My grandmother had two in her basement and every year when I'd visit her, I'd spend half of my time down there typing up stories. My dad also had an electric typewriter (still does) that I typed stories on when I stayed at his house.