I turned 34 this week, and I’m wondering if it’s too early to go through a mid-life crisis. I woke up as usual, crawled to the shower and got ready for work as usual, dropped my husband (still getting used to that) off at his work as usual and drove off to mine. Little did I suspect that an angst-storm of massive proportions was rumbling in the distance.
We don’t tend to make a huge thing out of birthdays, so this was no big deal, but nonetheless this birthday has assumed a significance completely out of proportion to the occasion. Surely I should be doing the “Dear God, what am I doing with my life?” freak-out at 40? Apparently not. I know that I’m pathological about not being late but this is bloody ridiculous!!
Here I am, working for a non-profit organisation involving books and a particular university – a position I was thrilled to land last December despite the dismal pay – and doing all sorts of amazing things like getting married and looking for a house to buy. The problems in my life were relatively small and stable up to this point.
So, why did I suddenly turn 34, decide that I hated my jobs (I have two part-time roles which have been munged together to make one full-time role), shriek in despair at my lack of lifetime achievement (I have a Bachelor of Nothing Employable and am debt free), and proceed to run around like the proverbial headless chicken?
When did the things I’ve been avoiding quite successfuly (like the last three years of tax returns and thankyou notes for wedding gifts) suddenly transmogrify into big horrible monsters that keep me up at nights?
Which, of course, just adds to the flavour. Nothing like a few choice crises with a side-helping of sleep-deprivation. Add a few pinches of desperation and depression and let the whole sulk in the corner for a time before cooking over a possible house move.
GAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!
