I'm so close to 30.

I'm so close to 30.

Last weekend, I turned 26.  It was gruesome.  There was a nice dinner with the girlfriend and then a whiskey soaked night partying with friends that is now just a very blurry and gap filled memory montage somewhere in my brain.  I’ve basically been recovering until yesterday (i.e. drinking lots of water, swallowing lots of aspirin, and returning a goat to wherever my friend Kirch was able to rent a goat).  This explains my lack of posts, as well as the sick day from work, my suddenly appearing limp, and the notice for a court appearance in regards to an “indecent exposure with a farm animal.”  But as the nausea and pounding headache subsided, something hit me: pure and utter anxiety about where my life was going.

I find myself doing the math whenever I read the profile of someone successful or a celebrity, trying to figure out how old they were when they got their first big break. Thoughts like “When did they do it?” or “How much time do I have?” run through my head.  It’s as if I’m trying to figure out how much longer I can afford to not really accomplish anything substantial, to just seemingly dick around with my life.

It’s not that I think I’m a loser or anything. I just always figured that by this point in my life I’d have reached a higher level of success.   Growing up, I imagined a moderate level of fame, warranting a magazine cover or at least a profile on a major network news show.  I always thought my life would be filled with adventure and some danger.  I mean come on, I should be solving the occasionally murder or wrangling the slimmest of escapes via my trusty pocketknife and knowledge of science.  I should be getting into fistfights on top of moving trains or battling wits with a crime lord of some kind.  Today, my most exciting days are the ones where I can afford to buy my lunch and eat it at my desk (I’m a big fan of those $5 foot long sandwiches over at Subway).

Call it narcissism. Call it an identity crisis. Call it another poisoned mind of a generation that was told since kindergarten that they “can be whatever you want to be” and then met the cold reality that not everyone can be astronauts, rock stars, a-list actors, or crime solving geniuses.  But then there’s the realization that I came to this on my own.

Whatever turned my life into whatever this is, didn’t happened overnight. I made the many decisions that led me here.  And maybe I’m just looking for the wrong accomplishments.  Maybe I should remember that since my last birthday: I’ve quit smoking, gotten a handle on my personal life, reached some level of financial security (for the moment), and even began making progress (measurable in molecules of length) in my career.  But seriously, how cool would it be to solve a murder?

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