The insipid older sister of 30 angst. While 30 angst is allowed to be big and loud and accompanied by great quantities of vodka or rum or both mixed together, 31 angst is quiet and sneaks up on you. 30 is a milestone, a big party, a year ending with a zero. When you are 9 years old the excitement building to finally be in the double digit years is great. I can remember that. Then you look forward to 13 because now you are officially a teen. Then 16 because you can drive. Then 18 because you are an adult. I remember my grandmother was visiting around my 18th birthday and although I've never smoked, I felt kind of grown up about buying her cigarettes for her. I got carded. :) Then, of course there's 21. You can now drink legally. Then 30. You are now officially the age to be a soccer mom. Then there's nothing else to look forward to... unless you count 65 when you're (at least at this time) officially eligible for medicare. Whoop de do.
Lately there've been a lot of different thoughts whirling around in my head. Where am I going? What am I doing? How will I get there? Why am I doing this? I think the job drama is in part at the root of that. There have also been a few other reliatively significant things contributing. I'm just sick of my present reality. I want a different one. I want a do-over dammit! Or maybe I'm just hitting my usual 3 year itch. That's about as long as I have managed to live in a place before I'm just ready to pack up the U-Haul and move. I need a freakin' vacation. Luckily I have one planned. :) Hypothetically I'll be refreshed and renewed after visiting the happiest place on earth and I'll be more ready to thrash about in my current place, rather than pack it all up, strap on my back pack and find the next place to lay my head. I want to actually be able to feel like I'm succeeding someplace rather than merely surviving there. That'll never happen, though, with my current cut and run lifestyle. Maybe I just need a nap.