I thought I had somehow escaped the cliche quarter-life crisis thing. Yeah, no. While I’ve been in a state of flux for what feels like eons (okay, a year and a half), I’ve somehow reached this complete state of total-life-panic…as of today.
While I want to continue working as a writer, I also would like to make more money…so I can live comfortably and do fun things when possible. As you likely know, that’s kinda hard to do with most creative jobs.
I want to save up to travel. I want to hold onto every last paid day off for trips around the world. A road trip (in May, ideally, to ring in the big 2-6), a return to Europe. A cruise. A beercation to Vermont. A donutcation to Portland. I don’t want chronic sickness to soak up all of my time away from the office, as it has in recent days.
I consider going back to school for a more lucrative degree in a specialized field. But, what field? I suck at math. And science. And anything related to numbers or adding up amounts higher than 100 or the anatomy of humans. There goes healthcare. And management. And god knows what else.
Sometimes I daydream about working abroad for a year. Like a belated gap year. But then I’d miss Philly. Sometimes I even daydream about relocating to another rando-city. But then I’d miss Philly. Goddamn you, Philly.
I could create my own business, but, ya know, that requires math. So, nope, can’t create my own business. And, also, what in the heck would I establish anyway? Something related to beer, I’d assume, by my passion for the suds. And using the word “suds” as part of my regular speech.
Kind-of an aside here: Yesterday I was mindlessly surfing through Tinder, because, as a super-single 25-year-old, I tend to do that sometimes. And at that very moment, Tinder decided to attempt to match me with the least compatible person for me.
Guy was wearing a Miller shirt. With a Coors lanyard. Cringe x2. In another picture, he poses with PBR. Caption for his profile? “Craft beer critic.” CRITIC! In a bad way?! As if craft beer is inferior to disgusting, low-grade, watery domestics. Gross!
I just really needed to share that with someone. Thank you for the opportunity, blog.
Getting back to the point: I realize it’s impossible to figure out my whole life’s purpose and goals and the right path at my age. But I’d at least like to figure out a proposed timeline.
I believe some people call it a “five-year plan.”
At this point, I’d even be fine with a “three-month plan.”
You see, adding to the stress, I’m moving from my current gorgeous-but-way-too-expensive apartment at the end of May. I’m reluctant to sign another yearlong lease. A full year seems like such a huge commitment, especially based off my current job-hopping ways. In the past, I lived in South Jersey and worked in North Philly. Then I moved to North-Central Philadelphia (…Francisville) to be near my job, and then everything fell apart and I ended up living far away from work yet again.
Next, I’ll sign a lease for South Philly and end up in North Jersey, because that’s just the story of my life.
I feel like, in such an unsustainable job market, it’s tough to say, “I’m going to move to Center City. I’ll find the best-job-ever in Center City. I won’t spend hours of my young life stuck in dismal traffic jams. I’ll live close to a gym and start working out again. Yay, health. I’ll get my whole life sorted out by tomorrow! Woo-hoo.”
I’ve never been so noncommittal and indecisive before. Life is always evolving, and it’s terrifying for a planner like me to consider letting the world just take its own action in due time.
So, what next? Go back to school? Live abroad? Move across the country? Stay in Philly? Move back to South Jersey? Pray? Visit a psychic?
Or, uuum, trust that I’ll figure it all out by the end of May?
Well, that’s a good one!