Occasionally I have days that are like one giant existential crisis. Today is one of them. I get up with the alarm, I smear shampoo through my hair. I dutifully put on my security badge for work and march through the front doors. I spend my work day in a sort of survival mode: just getting through it, getting it done, putting in the time until I can leave. It’s not clear to me why there is so much anticipation about going home at the end of the day. There is dinner to be had and dishes to be done. I may or may not do those things. If I’m really good I spend time writing to or about someone. If I’m especially restless I turn on the TV and try to absorb one of the mind-numbing shows on there. I try to be strategic about giving myself things to look forward to: dinner and drinks with this friend, concert tickets with that friend, the occasional movie. A walk in the fog. But I can’t stop wondering, “Isn’t there more that this?”
I suppose I’m not asking anything that everyone else doesn’t wonder at some time or another. It’s just that for so long I had this feeling that I was meant for bigger and better things. When I was young that feeling was so strong I could almost TOUCH it. A part of me refuses to believe that measuring out my life with coffee spoons and paychecks is all there is to it.
I don’t mean to sound cynical. I’m actually not. I pay attention. I look for the little moments and relish any time I get with people I love. I try to keep the shit that doesn’t matter in perspective and not lose sight of the bigger stuff. I try not to lose my general sense of optimism and my naïve belief that good people get good things because they deserve them. It’s just that some days are a little harder than others, and today I am working extra hard.