Thursday, March 27, 2014

I feel an incredible pressure to be something, somewhere by 30.  To have arrived.  To be impressive. As if after 30, I have failed or can no longer be remarkable.  I'm curious if this is because I am a youngest child and for so long have identified my success alongside the scale of my age.  Or if it is because of our culture - the 30 Under 30 list and 40 Under 40.  I've known people on those lists. And my name is nowhere near making a list.  Of any kind.

I think at this time - I'd settle for just knowing clearly what my big goals are by the time I turn 30. What my dream job even is - that one thing that will make me come alive in the workplace.  

I asked my coworker today "What is your dream job?"  She said she didn't know.  I told her I don't either and that it's making me bloody depressed.  She leaned her head back on her chair and said, "Me too."  I'm beginning to think it's a disease English Lit majors are especially prone to - and it's making us all sick in the soul.  We pursue a degree we love - and it can apply to almost anything - but finding that one thing becomes increasingly difficult as our dual technical-artistic selves get pulled deeper and deeper into the business world. And here we are nearly 30, still thinking we are moving toward something, some thing we cannot name. 

For some reason, all of this makes me dreadfully sad to not have a grandparent.  I feel like if I had one, they'd tell me - you're 27 years old, dammit. You've barely begun to live. But I don't have a grandparent.  I hardly ever did. And that silence just seems to drive the end ever closer to me - this pressure to do something, be somewhere, be someone, quickly.  Because life seems to end too soon.  And I've barely begun. 

And now that I have depressed you all - go read this article.  It may be the best thing I've read in a while... and I'm only two-thirds through it. 

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