The Quarter-Life Crisis exists. It does.
It’s a flop in the stomach, a lip-quiver, a mild dread somewhere deep, a question.
What do I want? What now, what next? What’s missing? Because something is.
Write a creative essay.
Travel. Write a travel piece.
Eat. Write a food piece.
Read. Write a review.
Keep experimenting. Photography?
I’ve lost it.
My boss is gone and I’m working from home. I shouldn’t. I wake up too late to work out. I get strung out — on coffee. I don’t brush my hair and I don’t strap on a bra ’til lunch. There’s a melted chocolate chip stuck to my sweatpanted butt. This is rock bottom.
Or it’s loneliness. Age 24.
My Quarter-Life Crisis looms and it’s real, I can feel it. I’m freaked out.
My friends are pinballing. Some bop around the party scene, some hunker down with text books like hermits, some are hitting it big in salary, some have no clue what career they want, some are trying to tie the knot and some are hot on the hookup scene. A couple are intentionally procreating.
My Quarter-Life Crisis is a prickle in my consciousness.
What do I want? What now, what next? What’s missing? Because something is.
I’ve had two editing jobs. I’ve lived in three cities. I’ve realized: Every time I snag that glamorous job title (Editor, ahh), I still just sit at some desk. First, a dusty, cramped cubicle. Now, a bright desk popped with an orchid, (fuschia) that’s slipped to drooping, to depressed, to just… dead. Next, who knows?
I’ve dropped a relationship and picked up on prudishness. I’ve gotten fanatic about yoga and upped my anxiety. I’ve churned out words about interesting people and can’t seem to sum up what’s interesting about me (anything?). I’m roiling with inquiries but receding with no answers.
Have I come full circle to my hometown?
Do I travel more?
Eat more?
Read more?
Write more?
Try experimenting? …Photography?
I’m freaked out, prickled, sweatpanted. A little lost. I want what’s next.
Pluck up the birthday candles, make a wish. Hope tastes like chocolate frosting.
