The 27 Club: One Year Left

Today I turned 26. I always feel so productive on my birthday, accomplishing that seemingly impossible task of transitioning into an entirely different age. It takes so much out of me that I won't attempt such a miraculous feat for another year. So in 365 days, I'll feel productive again as I turn 27.

If I happen to embrace rock-stardom this year, the great age shift of 2010 could mean trouble.

Because 27-year-old rock stars die.

So let's assume I have one year left. Because I'm practically Bon Jovi, remember? And considering I'll be a rock star for my final year, picture me as the image of pure awesomeness. But probably without tattoos. I'm too practical and indecisive. Even with the knowledge that I won't have to worry about wrinkly ink.

This is what I've gotta do before I join the 27 Club:

• Finish a screenplay. Preferably the one I just started. (I'm a writerly rock star.)
• Meet the Boy Behind the Wall. And neglect to tell him about this blog. When I'm gone, this url will be sent to him. It's in my will.
• Uh, create will.
• Get an agent. A literary one.
• Travel somewhere I haven't been. Maybe get a stamp on my passport.
• Play the piano. And sing. Because that's what rock stars like me do. And maybe pick up a guitar and pretend to be cooler than I am.
• Find a romantic lead for my biography. Tearfully confess that I can't marry him, as I'm about to die and have no interest in leaving the man I love a widower. He should marry someone who survives her twenties. Unless he's anticipating joining the same tragic club.
• Run a 5k for real. Just to prove that I can be a sexy, fit writer. And maybe to outrun impending death.
• Read a novel in French. I want to die a little more bilingual than I am today.
• Send fan mail. To everyone. And respond to all of mine.
• Take more photographs.
• Leave a fantastic pile of journals, notebooks and email drafts for someone to compile into the above-mentioned touching, hilarious, and exasperating biography. Scribbled hints at a life well-lived.
• Enter Club 27 with no regrets. No "what ifs." No hesitant tiptoeing where Nancy Sinatra-esque stomping should be.
• Be up for the adventure. Laugh a lot. Love without abandon. Take risks. Write it down.
• "Well done." That's all.

Twenty-six is going to be good, folks. It has to be. It might be all I've got.

Resolving

When I was in public school, probably the fourth or fifth grade, I posted my New Year's resolutions on my bedroom wall. I liked the look of an extensive list of honorable intentions hanging above my bed, the two-page manifesto pasted on balloon-shaped construction paper that coordinated with the pretty blue and pink hearts on the wallpaper.

I wish I could remember them all.

I can't recall if it was the innocence and optimism of youth or the pride of sounding mature that had me committing to praying for missionaries, putting others first and sharing Jesus with my friends so publicly. I don't have the courage to be so bold now. Maybe I fear failure. Or the lure of the unrealistic. I don't know. But my attempts to define any sort of resolutions this year have thus far been in vain.

Two or three years ago, I wrote a list of things I wanted to do within the year. The goals were superficial. They were written by an insecure little girl masquerading as a woman. And when the year-end came, very little was checked off.

I am determined to come up with something this year. Something challenging. Something that will have me literally sweating (I bought gym clothes over the holidays) and figuratively growing (creatively). So maybe that's two things. Or more. And I want them measurable. Too vague and I'll find a witty way to excuse myself into false accomplishment.

Maybe I'll post them here. For accountability. And then maybe I'll delete them. For fun.

And at 25, spiritual growth isn't really a construction-paper check-marked goal anymore. It's a day-to-day adventure. I'd rather live it than scrawl it on my wall.

Perhaps I should dust off the old Bucket List....