five year plan

my favorite piece of writing, revisited

Me, back when I wrote this for the first time. It remains one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written but as all stories go, I’ve changed my mind about a few things. I hope you enjoy. Muah!

Hey, stranger.

In five years I will be 28. A horrid number, far too close to 30, that I’m sure most people flinch at when they meet it. Five years ago I was 18, parading around like I knew everything to know about anything. Now, perfectly balanced on a tightrope between the two, I am 23 and my five year plan includes having an apartment with a big kitchen and French windows. I want to take care of my household appliances, my clothes, my window curtains with a reverence usually reserved for the body. The life that I’ve created will be an extension of me. I will wash its hair, apply its retinol, tuck it into bed at night.

In five years, I’d like to have been to Paris to see what all the fuss is about. I’d like to have eaten octopus and lots of squid and sea urchin. In five years, I will have mastered the art of taking off my makeup before I get too tired but not too early that I have to put it back on when someone calls to go out. I want to be able to speak a bit more French than I do now, maybe even be fluent. I’d like to have been to London. At 28, I won’t get annoyed when babies cry on planes, or when people walk too slow, or when my hair gets caught in the strap of my purse. I’ll know how to file my taxes on time. In five years I’ll know how to be a person a little bit better.

In meeting someone new and getting the inevitable question of “so what do you do?” I perform the script I’ve rehearsed enough times to know like the back of my hand. There is an illusion of a plan, a trajectory, a sense of control in my answer. I must have gotten what I wanted. I must not want any more. What I don’t tell them is that I still haven’t learned how to cook steak medium rare. To be able to baste it properly, serve it to my friends around the dinner table, to not get nervous when the oil splatters. Oh, I still want a career I love, too. I’ve grasped the beginnings of one. It’s just that now I’ve gotten greedy. I want both. In five years I want to still be able to tell someone, “sorry it’s been a busy week, work has been crazy” but be smiling. I never want to dread Mondays and I’d like to know how to make coq au vin without breaking a sweat.

What I’d love in five years is to be able to do my hair in a way that suits me. I’ve never been able to get that one down quite yet. Surely five years is enough time to learn how to give myself a blowout, right? I’d like all my socks to have a matching pair, no more single ones floating around my closet. While I’m at it, it would also be nice to never rip my tights or get deodorant stains on my shirts. In five years I want to be able to schedule appointments and email people back without a shred of anxiety. I don’t know if everyone else has started to figure these things out but even if I go at my own pace, it’d be nice to knock some of it off the list by 28.

Half a year ago, I could not fathom people having ambitious five year plans that show a clear passion, a direct route to success, a goal. But let me come clean to you for a moment: I am dizzy from the sheer amount of things I want to achieve. In five years, or ten, I don’t mind. Now that I am firmly 23, just about to leave for 24, I’ve finally allowed myself to want things. My five year plan is bursting at the seams and there is very little order to it all. I want and I want and I want. But still, most of all, I’d really like friends to call and talk to while I paint my toenails in the bathroom. Head pinning the phone to my shoulder, hair sliding over my neck. I’d like to say “hold on a moment,” and pour myself a little more wine. I’d like to go to New Orleans and the bayous in Louisiana like in the books I’ve read. I’d like to try gumbo.

In five years I’d like to not view 30 as the end of my life. I’d really like it if it was the start of a new adventure. Whoever spends their days convincing women that life goes downhill after 30 will be hearing very stern words from me. I’d like to be excited for the rest of my 20’s and then the middle bit and then the inevitable old age. At every age, I want my five year plan to be daring and bold and overflowing onto the margins. I’d like to not be so scared of not having a plan that makes sense. I’d like to enjoy the ride.

Most of all, I’d like to experience every single item on my too-big-almost-overflowing list of things I want. I don’t want to miss any of it, not one second. My five year plan these days is ambitious and full of trivial bullet points like learn how to crochet but nestled in between those mundanities are career goals and cities I want to live in and industries I want to experience. It’s getting very long. I love my not-so-little list and hope that you, reading this, have a plan of your own. It’s okay if you don’t, though. I didn’t. But when you do start one, I hope that you are not afraid to add the big, scary thing that you’re too scared to say aloud. Add it. Tell me, if you need someone to tell. I’m wishing you all the best.

xoxo,

Evie