This is so stupid, but this fact has actually just crushed a good chunk of my soul. In six months I will be turning the dreaded 3-0. I will have officially been a part of this earth for three decades, and in so doing will cut any final societal ties to being a ‘young adult’.
Holy fucking expectations Batman!
Forgetting the fact that technically I am already over thirty since thirty years ago I was gestating in my mother and therefore in existence and then the fact that thirty years ago my mother was having a major “Oh shit, now what do I do?” moment, this is a huge thing! While logically I know my life isn’t over when I hit thirty, it’s feeling a lot like I’m the kid that’s been asleep in the back of the class and the teacher has just told us that the project that will dictate our entire lives is due tomorrow.
I mean, I am better off than the worst of those hitting thirty. I have a decent job, my own car in decent repair, and I’m living in my own place (which finally after seven months I think I’m getting the hang of). But still, I am not where I wanted to be this far out. Not even close.
First of all, I am a terribly romantic type. I dream of an all-encompassing love with the man of my dreams who I am deeply connected to and have a relationship that makes us both grow into better people. But alas, here I am single with absolutely no prospects and no clue how to advance from this point.
Second, and more obtainable in my opinion, to have written and published a novel of my own. To which there is no surprise from any of you I am sure, and frankly is becoming too much like a broken record.
So this is how it’s going to go. For the next six months, I am going to focus all my energy not blown on basic survival towards these two goals.
Find the love of my life.
Write and publish a novel.
Anyone care to take bets?