I sit across a small table from my friend Sharaya in a coffee shop on a busy street in St. George, Utah. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of a single storefront window, and an array of red lights that reflect mutely off of the dark colored walls. We chose a table in the back of the long, dark main room, where we feel secluded. We are surrounded by pictures of famous musicians that hang neatly framed on every wall. The free thinkers of their time; Janis Joplin, the Beatles, Jimmy Hendrix. Brass instruments have been mounted on the wall to serve as light fixtures; trombones, trumpets, french horns, all retired from what they once did best.
"I don't get it," Sharaya screams, in the middle of one of her vents about a friend she has been spending time with for six months or so. "I know he is not the man I initially thought he was, so why am I so needy of his love and approval?" Her usually smooth voice is shrill with frustration. "It's like I'm saying 'No, you're not you, you're this other person, and you just don't know it.' What is wrong with me?" She throws her hands up in the air in resolve.
Sharaya is a petite 21 year old, but she is wise beyond her years. Her youth was filled with drugs and alcohol, and a mother who was, from what I've gathered, slightly (or more than slightly) unhinged. She sits in front of me today, a devout student of Islam, sipping a decaf soy latte. I marvel at what she has been through, and how she has come to be sitting across from me here today, her sanity still intact.
In Utah, coffee shops are a good meeting place for the middle of the roaders like us. St. George is a fast growing city, but has yet to include any good social gathering places. For someone who is too conservative for the "One and Only" bar (pun intended), but too liberal to go to church activities, coffee shops are basically the singular outlet for meeting new people, and/or being among like minds.
"Wow," I laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "I hear you. That's a hard place to be in."
"So what's going on with you?" she asks, putting her tangent on the back burner for further consideration. She reaches for her drink.
"Well, I'm getting older," I say in dismay. "I can see the wrinkles around my eyes now."
I'm 25 years old, soon to be 26. I'm sure my wrinkles aren't visible to anyone but myself. But Sharaya sips her decaf coffee, and looks at me thoughtfully, without a shred of judgment in her eyes. That's what I like about her; we can both be our crazy selves, and really be "in our shit", with no judgment passed.
"You know," I start a vent session of my own, "what is our fascination with youth anyway? Why can't we all just age and be proud of it? Why do we resist the aging process?"
She nods her head in agreement. Her curly brown hair bounces up and down over her shoulders.
"Why do we get all this special attention from everyone when we are young? People are just automatically impressed when a young person does anything. 'He's a doctor and he's so young. She won an Oscar and she's so young.' Both of these things are great with or without the youth they speak of, so why do they even bring it up? Look at women's magazines. If they have a woman over 45 on the cover, they have to point out why. 'Look, she's 45 and she's still pretty good looking.' Why can't they just say, 'Look? She deserves to be on here as much as Taylor Swift or Hayden Panttiere. Who cares how old she is. There is beauty in aging too.'"
Aw, that felt nice. We both lean back in our seats, and look at each other in contemplation. By the end of the venting session, we've both resolved never to get boob jobs or face lifts. We'll approach old age with our dignity.
