30 something… or something.
I had a quarter-life crisis when I was 24 years old. It started with the panic-stricken moment I realized I didn’t want to be a bartender for the rest of my life. I stood there behind the bar on aching feet, nodding my head with a false expression of interest as I did not listen to my regular customer tell me about his glory days in his heavy metal band. What appeared to be the act of listening was actually me quietly making a plan inside my brain on how to escape the dark, late nights of tending bar. Had I followed this plan precisely, I wouldn’t be sitting at my dining room table right now, starting another blog. I would be raiding the fridge for the fifth time today since I would be pregnant with Christian Bale’s baby and hungry from not eating since before my mud bath and pedicure. Alas…
Here I am. Eight months shy of 30 and still not Mrs. Bale. Yet that’s okay because even as I sit here in sweatpants and sweatshirt, underneath a horribly lit lamp, drinking water from a glass I stole from a restaurant, I am happy.
And that’s about it.
