Ed’s been gone this week for work and, as usual, I’ve taken to behaving like a 12 year-old whose parents have gone away for the weekend. Eating pizza for every meal! Playing music too loudly! Watching embarrassingly shitty television! DRINKING ALL THE WINE! Also: indulging in goofy beauty treatments, but I do that when Ed is home, too, because you can’t maintain all this without a little extra help. Anyway, I don’t know why I always go totally bonkers when home alone. It’s not like I hide my weirdness from Ed. And I’m pretty sure love means never having to apologize for being gross and eating too many slices of pizza, but don’t quote me on that. Actually, go ahead and quote me on that because REAL TALK.
With all this alone time to contemplate the meaning of the world in between mainlining Parks & Recreation reruns, I’ve had a chance to think about my own career, or lack thereof. Jive Turkey wrote about this topic much more eloquently than I could have, but basically: I wish I had taken another path, but I also don’t really know what that path would be. I always talk about wanting to write as my J-O-B, but have never really made an effort to make that happen. Fear – of rejection, of realizing that I’m not that talented, among other things – has held me back, absolutely. And that’s sad and embarrassing. I mean, I’m not in love with my current position, there’s really no room to grow, and what the hell do I have to lose? Other than security, which is a huge thing for me. While I am a huge believer in “It’s never too late to —!” I have a hard time telling myself the same thing. You’re 35, you have adult responsibilities, you had the chance for silly daydreams and taking risks and you blew it – those are things I have no trouble telling myself.
The new message that should be on a loop in my brain is “Keep looking for something new, don’t give up on the writing, and for the love of everything that is holy IT’S NOT TOO LATE, WOMAN.”