Disclaimer: I don't think I have a humorous post about my children or anything else in me today, and since I figure the superficiality of my sarcasm will wear thin pretty soon if it hasn't already, I'm instead shooting for something of value at least to me. Everyone else can skip this needy little journal entry if they're not in the mood for such things, which I totally understand-- we've all got our problems.
Since everyone seems to have themed days on their blog, I think I'll call this Confessional Friday, and its lack of alliteration and likely lack of regular repetition just match perfectly with the essence of my life so far.
I have no idea who I am, or what I'm supposed to do with myself.
You ever have that feeling? I feel like I've been stuck back at about 18 for the last 9 years, like it's possible my kids could lap me in the maturation race. They should be so lucky to find a purpose in life and rise to meet it in good time. I'd be so happy for them, and maybe I could even pathetically latch on and steal a little meaning from them, a little reason for existing by extension.
I don't know where I'm supposed to go so I can't know how to get there, and while I understand that's nothing special, I've always thrived only in controlled situations with well-defined expectations and goals at much smaller intervals than "make money somehow and support your family". Since the world and I simultaneously began turning everything on its head around about 8 years ago, even the Standard Life Advice never seems to apply to me.
Or maybe that's because I won't let it.
Then again, that could just be my horribly paralyzing fear of failure meeting up with my compulsive need to overthink everything to jointly beat down my hope, potential, and useful pragmatism to lifeless pulps. My worldview is part conservative Baby Boomer and part needy product of said generation. I know what I need to end up doing and I know it doesn't really matter if I'm happy about it, but then I also know that at a deeper level, my happiness does matter in how it affects my kids and my wife.
But then, if I'm not all that happy in this bizarre limbo in which I'm floating, and I'm bathing my kids in all my neuroses on a daily basis, is that any better than going back to mindlessly slaving away for 50-60 hours a week and never seeing them except to spew back all the negative energy I was force-fed by a bunch of overgrown junior-high-schoolers who considered boldfaced lying a second language?
Even the fact that I'm struggling with all this now at 27, and phrasing it the way I am, and whining in general the way I am, should be proof enough of my arrested development. But what do I do about that? Where do I go from here?
So that's what's rolling around in my head right now. How about you?