The Peanut Butter Sandwich Years

I call these the peanut butter sandwich years.

These are the years in which peanut butter is a staple in one’s diet. It’s about convenience. Taste. And funds.

It’s also partly about reconnecting to one’s youth. About not wanting to fully embrace adulthood. Maybe it’s Peter Pan syndrome.

These are the years of living in little houses, in little cities by the water, in attics transformed into bedrooms. And the squeaky floors. And loud radiators. And furry friends living in your kitchen cabinets. That all go along with it.

These are the years of driving your grandmother’s car. Of being thankful you even have a car to get you from place to place. So that you can take that spontaneous road trip for the weekend. So that you can have a space to sit and cry at the end of a really long day. So that you can roll the windows down and have a dance party on your way to work in the summer.

These are the years of attempting to give up one’s vices. It’s about taking control. A healthy life change. And funds.

(And also attempting to not be a caffeine addict.)

These are the years of getting all dressed up to go out with your girlfriends on a Saturday night, even when you have to work early on Sunday. These are the years of having to work on Sundays.

And so it goes that these are the years.

Of.

Creating recipes with the 4 or 5 ingredients mustered from the fridge since you can’t go to the grocery store (These are the years of working in a grocery store.).

Imaginary shopping online at places like Pottery Barn and Anthropologie, while actually acquiring items via Craigslist and Goodwill… and your parents.

Sitting in eccentric coffee shops drinking chai lattes while listening to folksy musicians sing songs about love and war and what’s wrong with people today.

Trying to live simply. Or. Simply trying to figure out life. As if life truly is a thing to be figured out. Or. Perhaps. Being obsessed with this quest of trying to figure it all out, all the while knowing that it’s somewhat futile. That maybe it doesn’t actually work this way.

Teaching kids.
And realizing that you’re probably learning far more from them than they from you.

These are the years of falling in love again and again. Of trusting and giving and opening up without hesitation. Of picking up the pieces of a broken heart time after time. But never giving up. And never giving up hope.

These are the years of late night conversations about the very state of our existence. About men and women and relationships. About negotiating growing up. All while sipping wine from mismatched glasses. Standing in the kitchen. Lying on the living room floor. Sitting on porch steps.

These are the years of writing and remembering. Of mental pictures and embracing moments as fully and honestly as one possibly can. Doing what you want. When you want. And feeling good about it (or at the very least, trying as best you can).

These are the years of watching others around you get promoted. And engaged. Have their dream weddings. And babies. And reminding yourself that you too will get all of these things. One day.

These are the years of knowing that nothing is permanent. That life is a gift. And you’re pretty lucky to be so hyper aware. Even if at times, it all feels like too much.

That we’re all just in the midst.
And it’s confusing. Terrifying. Hilarious. Exhilarating.

These are the years of adventure.

These are the peanut butter sandwich years.

Of that I am completely certain.