Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Quarter-Life Crisis

I am technically a year late for this--well, a year and a half to be precise, but who's counting? NOT ME, obviously. Case in point:

During a conversation with Cap and J a week or so ago, I said, "I mean I'm 26 years old for crying out loud!" Or, something along those lines and I was instantly struck by an icy chord of fear.

"Wait," I said, turning to Cap. "I'm 26, right?"

{This song was my jam about, oh, fifteen years ago! 
And is very fitting for this story. Play it in the background!}

She looked at me like the idiot that I am was.

"Um, yeah," she said.

"How old are you?" I asked accusingly, still not quite believing it.

"25," she said. "You're 26." DUMMY is I'm sure a word she would have liked to add to the end of that statement.

Circa-1970 dress found at the flea market for $15 that I will wear to a fundraiser with Cap on Thursday!

Do you ever do this?

I always think I am 22. ALWAYS.

Sure, I just celebrated my 26th birthday a short 2.5 months ago, but in my mind, I am perpetually 22.

And, when put on the spot about how old I am, I always have to think--like think really hard to remember.

I'm 22. No, that was 2009. This is 2013. That makes me...... ummm....... OH. Twenty-freaking-six. GOD. Now, I'm depressed. Wait, is that right? No, I'm not 26. 1987 subtracted from 2013 is...... DAMN. I am 26.

The gorgeous 1920s cameo W gave me for our fourth anniversary. He done good.

I am sure this is a clinically diagnosable psychological something or other. I am sure there is a medication for it, too.  

Xanax for the emotionally-uptight, touchy-feely-intolerant, one-woman pih-ty pahr-ty, anyone?? Hmm??

I'm not really sure of the significance of the age of 22. I turned 22 three days after graduating college. I married W 2.5 months into being 22. I moved in with W at 22. I had to get a real job at 22--although I really didn't. (My real job as Executive Director of an historical society and museum came at the ripe old age of 23. I know, I thought they were crazy for hiring me, too!)

There's just something about 22, and I'm stuck on it.

But, now, 2.5 months into being 26 and what do I have to show for it?

Some pretty gnarly tan lines from my battles with the spray-on sunscreen and my week at the beach.
A mad case of poison ivy from weeding the garden at work.
A huge, stinky pile of self-loathing for myself and my "work."
A 2 lb. weight loss due to the previously mentioned huge, stinky pile of self-loathing. I'll take it.
Endless day dreams of my perfect job falling from the heavens and flattening me like an unlucky frog victim to a mac truck in the middle of a steamy highway.
(Most likely) in-vain planning of a trip to Greece in May since W and I will most likely not have the time or the money to experience one of our dream vacations for another, oh, five to ten years.
A mild bout of depression about how incredibly stagnant my professional and social life have become in the last two years. Things were looking up, up, up during that first year in WV. Sadly, I've plateaued.

My incredible anniversary dinner: petite filet and prawn. YUM.

Wow. That turned depressing fast.

Enter: Quarter-life Crisis.

What does it mean?

For me, right now, it means:

1. Not saying no.
2. Being spontaneous.
3. Taking risks.
4. Dreaming big.

I hope the 23 year olds I met in Junior League will take another chance on me and call me to drink beer with them at the Pittsburgh farm team baseball games. Because, this gluten-free, 26-year-old, museum professional WILL drink some gluten and WILL heckle some baseball players. Granted, the first time I went with them, I stalked the concessions looking for white wine while they drank dollar beer from cups that fill from the bottom (!!). I KNOW. I would like to go back in time and tell myself to shut the eff up and go put on some gosh darn shorts, woman. Y'all, I wore a white button down polo shirt and coral ankle pants and flats. AND, one of them had to explain SnapChat to me. GOD. WHAT HAVE I BECOME. No wonder they never call anymore.

Its now or never. I've got 11 more months of limbo. AKA: FOURTH YEAR MEDICAL SCHOOL HELL. And, I am just not content to sit here and let it creep insignificantly by as I count down the days to the rest of my life. Who wants to live like that anyways? Always watching the calendar, the clock, your life tick, tock by. Its maddening. And, I've had enough.

So, here's to a dirty house, full days and adventure!

I will keep you posted as I try to quickly climb my way out of this slump.

Cap and I have braved the county pool two Sundays in a row!

Quarter-life crises: Do they really exist? Discuss.


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