I apologize for not having been around for the past few months. I’ve been busy, but that’s no excuse to ignore you. I’ve been crafting, drunk buying a metal rooster, drunk buying a lemur onesie, planning a fundraiser, planning a vacation… This all actually makes me sound a lot busier/adultier than I really have been. Honestly, most of this summer has been spent binge watching multiple shows (side note: Shameless, how have I lived my life without you?!), drinking margaritas, eating tacos, and trying to figure out what the hell that smell in my car is. (Side note: I’m almost positive there’s not a dead body in my car, but I just can’t be sure anymore).
Two weeks ago, I celebrated the anniversary of the day I valiantly fought my way out of the tyrannical oppression of the womb to earn my sweet, sweet freedom.
Translation: it was my birthday.
I’m 35. Shit. How did that happen??
I feel like this birthday, more so than the rest, has triggered a major existential crisis in me. After all…
- I can no longer pretend I’m in my 20’s.
- The only skills I’ve cultivated in 35 years are: day drinking, cupcake baking, sarcasm, apathy, basic lock picking, and an unbreakable love of tacos.
- I am not an accomplished singer/songwriter, actress, or athlete. Granted, I’ve never had any talent in these areas. It just bothers me that if I HAD had any talent in these areas, I’d basically be shit outta luck at this point. If I were an actress, I’d be at that point where Hollywood wants me for mom roles. If I were an athlete, I’d have to retire to be a coach.
- I haven’t backpacked across Europe, I don’t own a home. But at least I do have crippling student debt that I’ll eventually have to fake my death to get out of.
- My youngest coworkers have never seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off or the Breakfast Club or the other classics. I’m not sure how relevant that is, but it makes me very sad for them.
Please don’t get me wrong – I’m extraordinarily lucky. I have an amazing husband whom I love beyond words and all reason. My family is supportive beyond words. My job isn’t something I want to do for the rest of my life, but I have some fantastically supportive coworkers and friends who I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. My mid-life/third-of-a-life crisis is basically entirely warrantless.
So what am I trying to say here? My life does not suck. Not even a little bit, not even at all. My real regrets are far an few in between, and after my little freak out involving anxiety followed by tequila followed by a shopping spree on Victoria’s Secret online, I realized I really don’t care about that list. What do I care about? That I…
- Cross “Go To Ireland” off my bucket list
- Remain felony free
- Find out where that goddamn smell is coming from. (Side note: Seriously, it’s like a wet dog rolled in spoiled milk. It’s like if brimstone and bad decisions had a love child, and that child didn’t take a bath for a few days. That would be what my car smells like. I mean, you get used to it, but you never really get used to it, you know?)
- Write more. I may have given up my childhood dreams of being an actress, a dancer, a dolphin, and/or a trust-funder, and I’ll probably never make a living writing, but at least I’ll be doing something I love to do
But seriously, what am I trying to say here?
I’m not sure. Just plan to see me here more often.