It’s a good thing my sixteen year old self can’t see how she’d end up at 28.
16 year old me had only moderate expectations of 28 year old laney. House, career, some nice jewelry, maybe a brief case with important files, definitely a husband a nice car and a working credit card.
It’s very similar to how I see 38 year old Laney except the house looks different and the desire for a briefcase is now gone.
I live in a studio apartment, work in retail, have a f21 jewlery collection, a fossil bag filled with taco bell receipts and quarters for laundry, currently working on my third year of unhappy singledom, and a credit card that is about as valuable as a blockbuster card.
And yet I still feel a relentless insistence that I’m somehow going to end up being great.
Not, okay, not content, not happy, GREAT. Massively successful for some reason. I have absolutely no reason to believe this. My job history is like a handful of jigsaw peices from eight diffferent puzzles, I can’t commit to anything long enough to become expert, somewhat proficient yes, but I get bored too quickly.
I have no direction, little motivation, and I’m in constant fear of my life becoming irrelevant.
I wake up every day and tell myself to figure out what I want to do, find my great passion and take the first step. The past few years I have found myself in a quagmire of inertia stemming from a fundamental mistrust of myself. I have been so cocksure before about career paths and various ventures only to not only change my mind not too long after, but develop a disgust for whatever it was I was so sure I was going to commit my life to.
It’s too scary to say, I’m going to be a pharmaceutical sales rep/artist/writer/dental assistant/greenpeace crusader cause I know I’m going to be right in the middle of it and hate the very system’s guts. I’ll bail. Invariably.
The very idea of life in this universe is a so unlikely. The fact that it exists on this planet is miraculous. So why can’t I be content just living my life, day in day out, doing little hobbies, maybe finding a well paying job, watching TV, reading books knowing that I could very well not exist at all? Why can’t I enjoy my little life for one split second knowing that I’m one of the universal lottery winners by even having a little life to enjoy?
I simply can’t. The stirring. It screams out for meaning.
I know there are some women out there who are truely fufilled to the depths of their core by motherhood, or their career. But what about someone like me who has a sincere lack of desire to be a mother and can’t find any groove in a workplace? Am I to flounder forever or will something click? I can practically hear the ticking of a clock in my head counting down the minutes of my youth and usefulness and ultimate relevance to this competitve world. It strikes fear in my heart. I’m never relaxed or happy because I’m not even sure what to work on to propel myself toward any success, moderate or otherwise.
Am I a late bloomer or just a loser who doesn’t have the bliss of ignorance?