When I was a child of twenty-two, I met a man at a bar.

He was several years older and had recently moved to New York from Paris. He had swoopy hair and chiseled features and a wardrobe so scarf-heavy it bordered on cliché. This was a breath of fresh air after four years of college, where the shape of “romantic” encounters often centered around 40-ounce bottles of malt liquor and a reluctance to exchange phone numbers.

It was idyllic, if not ideal. (Were his frequent blunt observations — on everything from American culture to aesthetics to “women pee like cows, everything splashing down everywhere” — the result of a language barrier, or a lack of sensitivity? The world may never know.)

We dated for several years. In another dimension, I might have wound up with this man, but as a child of twenty-two, I wisely intuited that I had a great deal of life to figure out before I would be capable of such a thing. And so, this chapter became the stuff of memories — of youth, Paris, and something his mother once said to me.

*

For his thirtieth birthday, I orchestrated a surprise party. His family flew in for the occasion. The morning of the soiree, his mom and I perched at my coffee table, inflating balloons and stringing letters into a homemade “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banner. That’s when she said it.

“Thirty-year-old men are the best.”

Her eyes gleamed. In my memory, she rubbed her hands together, like the Big Bad Wolf eyeing a steak. I suspect my brain may have fabricated this embellishment, but for the sake of this story, let’s say it happened. 

Thirty-year-old men had a certain magic, she explained, a unique combination of experience and naiveté. They saw what was possible and had the energy and enthusiasm to go after it. They were past the initial young adult struggles of finding their footing, while their spirits were not yet dashed by the world at large. Her first husband (an older man) had been thirty when she married him. Her second husband (a younger man) had been — you guessed it — thirty, as well.

“Oh! To be a thirty-year-old man,” she concluded. “There’s nothing quite like it.”

The insinuation was that I was very lucky to share my year with this hallowed creature. But that point didn’t quite land. I didn’t leave the conversation eager to bask in the presence of some newly-minted tricenarian men. Instead, I wondered how I might become more like one.

Perhaps not coincidentally, that was the year my boyfriend and I broke up.

*

In the nearly twenty years since, I have encountered many thirty-year-old men. Some were lovely. A lot of them were really nothing to write home about.

Allow me to state the obvious, in that we each develop differently given the shape of our individual circumstances. A great many factors contribute to who (and how) we are at any given point. Surely, many young men benefit from existing on their side of ageism and sexism (not to mention other assorted privileges). But a legend this does not make.

To believe there is one prescribed path — that beauty, power, or possibility look any one way — is a disservice to us all.

*

I’d largely forgotten about this conversation until recent events left me pondering the shape of being a forty-year-old woman.

As I approached my last birthday, I kept hearing, over and over, about how something happens when one turns forty. You stop giving any f*cks, the story goes. It’s liberating.

In my own experience, I have indeed found this to ring true. But I know people who reached this point earlier in life, and others who will seemingly never find it. For me, it arrived at the juncture of not only a number, but a host of profound changes in my personal circumstances over the last couple years.

I love hearing about people who do all sorts of things at various points in life. (Julia Child got her first cooking show at age 50! Toni Morrison published her first novel at 39! My friend’s aunt moved to Costa Rica at 60 and opened up a yoga retreat!) In fact, I love it so much that I’ve compiled lists and make notes whenever I hear new examples.

But what I’m really interested in aren’t the things one can name in a bio or profile or resumé. What I want to know is: What happens inside that predates these ventures? What courage or urgency or tenacity or f*ck-it-all mindset makes someone learn to surf or create their invention or move abroad? Much like the promise of the thirty-year-old man, such je ne sais quoi surely transcends labels or boxes. It’s an energy. An aura. A state of being.

What factors merge to create such a tempest? That question may sound rhetorical, but it’s literal, too. I’d like to know.

*

The other day, I was in the shower when a little song naturally burst forth from my person. It was set to the tune of the chorus of I’m All Out of Love, by Air Supply. But it wasn’t a ballad so much as a battle cry:

I’m all out of f*cks
I have none to give you
If you have a judgment
That isn’t my problem…

I’ve been humming it as I go about my days, adding to the lyrics and chuckling to myself. Surely, I do still give some f*cks, particularly where my work and relationships are concerned. But I am through contorting into shapes for the sake of trends or approval, just as I’m done wedging myself into boxes of someone else’s making.

Maybe it’s getting clear on what brings me joy, meaning, and contentment. Maybe it’s coming to grips with the part where our time actually is limited. Maybe it’s getting talked over one too many times. (I don’t just mean volume — I’m five feet tall and much of my life has been spent having tall men order over my head at deli counters while the clerks ignore my existence. I’ll now interject, “HI, I’M STANDING HERE,” which brings me great satisfaction.)

Whatever it is, I think I’ve finally found the mystique of the thirty-year-old man. I know him. I am him. His energy is ripe for the taking, and he’s got nothing on me.

Oh! To be a forty-year-old woman, I think, clapping my hands like my ex-boyfriend’s mother may or may not have all those years ago. To be alive. To be enchanted by possibility and still — perhaps always — to believe in it.

Oh! To be.

In the end, she was right. There’s nothing quite like it.

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Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

For years, when I fired up my computer at the start of the workday, I was overcome by a feeling of panic.

In reality, there was never anything that terrible lurking in my inbox (or on my voicemail, when I had an office landline). Plus, any unwelcome surprises that might pop up inevitably did so later in the day. Yet my mind was wired to anticipate the worst. It wanted to save me from the imaginary tigers on the other side of the screen, to keep me safe from harm and disappointment.

This is the way of the Nine of Swords.

Whenever I pull this card in a reading, I am often met with an audible gasp or an alarmed expression. I get it — no one is thrilled at the sight of nine sharp objects and a person who appears to be in despair. But all evidence to the contrary, this week’s card is here to help.

In a nutshell, today’s message is about anxiety — an inevitable, inescapable part of being human. As you are no doubt aware, anxiety can manifest in a bevy of ways — worry, panic, doubt, insomnia, rumination, nerves — and the Nine of Swords speaks to all of them.

What are you worried about?

Sometimes, that question is obvious and easy to answer. Other times, it lurks somewhere beneath the surface.

This week’s card wishes to remind us that in many cases, the opposite of anxiety isn’t calm — it’s awareness.

Awareness allows us to see that we are, in fact, thinking a thought, imagining a scenario, making up a story. It grants us the space to take a breath, observe the present moment, and consider that the dragon whose arrival we’re anticipating may never show up. It may not even exist. All too often, anxiety is a monstrous creature of our own devising — exaggerated, anticipatory, imagined.

As the suit of thought and intellect, swords appear to remind us of the power of our own minds.

Our brains connect dots, fill in blanks, spin stories. In most cases, this is wonderful — the stuff of fiction and poetry, imagination and innovation. Our capacity for storytelling is nothing less than miraculous, except for when it comes to thought spirals. Then suddenly, we find ourselves wishing that such technicolor imaginings could be limited to positive pursuits.

Even when your worries may be rooted in reality, it can be helpful to ask: What story am I telling myself? What details or embellishments have I added? What space can I grant myself to consider how this could go another way?

We can sometimes frame thoughts as absolutes. I’m such a failure. Nothing ever works out. When objectively, reality says otherwise.

When it comes to grappling with these all-too-human tendencies, the Nine of Swords asks that we don’t go it alone. Others can put our fears in perspective. (And even if they can’t, a sounding board can still be helpful.)

This week’s message gently suggests that in many cases, what you have in front of you is a narrative of your own creation. And the thing about stories is that just as you can weave them, you can edit them, too.

With practice (and sometimes guidance), we can learn to recognize our stories — in all their forms — and ultimately, to work with them.

In the days ahead, the Nine of Swords asks that we remember just one thing:

Thoughts are thoughts.

Not facts. Not truths.

Life happens. Stress happens. But all feelings — positive, negative, and any other label we assign — come bearing a message. Our job is not to judge, merely to listen.