I often look back into my past and talk to younger versions of myself. (No, It’s not called a disorder. It’s called SELF-AWARENESS, MAN, QUIT JUDGING).
5-year-old me is probably the smartest I’ve ever been.
11-year-old me was so clueless sometimes I think I should slap her (lovingly) in the face. And hug her. She was a poor, sad, lonely thing.
17-year-old me was the one who made our most important decisions (thanks, girl).
And then there’s 22-year-old me… no comments.
I used to talk with all of them with a certain degree of confidence, knowing that, for the most part, present me was a faithful reflection of their dreams and efforts (and sometimes, even of the lessons they had learned).
But lately, present me isn’t feeling that comfortable any longer, neither looking at them in the eye.
I have high standards. “Impossible,” according to some people. They aren’t about pride, but about survival. With a dash of ambition. And lots of survival again (11-year-old me went through some rough stuff, let her be).
My point is: I don’t have fun at my job (otherwise I wouldn’t be blogging and tweeting, or would I?). I should be traveling and writing and wearing my pajamas all day if I want to, right? Where is that long-lost (aka imaginary) and fabulously wealthy relative who will randomly give me 200 million and spare me this boring horsecrap they call “work?” *sighs and rolls depressingly on the floor before standing up to photocopy some report*
I’m immensely grateful for having my job, and well aware of how good it is in many ways. Yet, when I look at the happy little face of 5-year-old me, I wonder what she would do if I sat her at my desk and told her this is her 9 to 5, every day, for the rest of her life.
Writing is my way to give her joy, to help her overcome the dullness of corporate life. I know there are worse lives to live, but that doesn’t take from the fact that I need to come up with an idea for an alternative source of income so that I can dedicate my precious, limited time to living a life more in line with the real desires of my heart.
Don’t judge me, I have two people to impress: a 5-year-old past self and a twenty-something, profoundly bored present me.