It’s the eve of my 45th birthday and I’d like to declare that I have no idea what the f**k I’m doing. More importantly and perhaps, frighteningly, I’m not sure of who I am. Shouldn’t I know these things by now? Wasn’t I supposed to have figured all this shit out in my 30’s, while spending the previous decade in existential turmoil, being insecure about things I wish I still possessed today, and recklessly trying out new things?
I know who I am not; I’m not a wife or a mother – two things I’ve never had the desire to become. I’m not a lawyer, doctor, or a concert pianist – three things that would’ve made my parents stark raving ecstatic. I’m not an astronaut, actress, filmmaker, or U.N. interpreter – four things I once had dreams of becoming; and I’m not a teacher – the thing I spent the last six years of my life doing only to find that it brought me more misery than joy. So, I stopped doing it. And since I stopped whenever someone asks me what I do I have no idea how to answer this very simple question. What DO I do? At the moment I have some private tutoring jobs and I occasionally do some copy-editing for an in-flight magazine. I also have a rather odd job singing to children on the phone that brings in cash every month. But is that what I do? Is that who I am? I’ve been feeling a bit lost. The thing is, it’s okay feel lost in your 20’s, and maybe even in your 30’s, but surely by your 40’s you’re supposed to have found whatever is it you’re looking for? As each year ticks by I hear the familiar refrain of “age is just a number” more and more frequently, and while I know it’s true, it doesn’t make getting older any easier. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of my age. What bothers me is that I still feel as aimless and unrooted as I did twenty years ago, but with a growing sense of urgency. I’m still a wandering soul with no real destination, and there’s a small part of me that’s scared that I’ll be wandering forever.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have a deep passion for anything. In fact, just the opposite was true. I wanted too much. I wanted to learn everything and do everything. The problem was that I could never choose just one specific thing to focus on. And that, I suppose, compounded by an abject fear of commitment, makes for a very unstable, uncertain sort of life. I wish I could somehow travel back in time and tell my younger self to just pick one damn thing and stick with it. Anything. But it’s too late for that. I only have right now and the minutes, hours, days, years ahead. I know the only way forward is to keep trying to figure things out. To keep reading and listening. To keep searching inwards and outwards. To keep being thankful for the things that are abundant in my life. To keep loving the people I love. To keep doing the things I enjoy. To just keep taking a breath in and a breath out. And to celebrate another year of being alive with some wine and good friends.