Which has nothing to do with the theme of this post… Well, sorta.
I’m not offended by it. It’s comfortable actually. There’s just something about old people that makes me feel all warm inside. Maybe there’s something about them that gives me hope. They’ve lived such long lives, and yet, they’re still out and about… and smiling. They’re still incredibly interested in what the world has to offer. I hope at 87, if I make it there, I’m still high on life. Or let me rephrase… I hope by the time I’m 87, I’m MORE high on life than I am now. I hope to look back and have no regrets. Fat chance, right? You wish, Steph.
As I write this, I realize I’m setting myself up for incredible disappointment. What am I actually doing with my life? I’m sitting at a Barnes and Noble doing work for a job that has me sit for eight hours a day. Don’t get me wrong; I LOVE my job. I get to travel and see AMAZING places. But does it fulfill me? I like to think so. But will it fulfill me in the long run? Will I look back and feel satisfied? Will I employ hindsight and then settle into a big, fluffy, metaphorical arm chair with a sigh of contentment and a smile of pleasant finality? Right now, I fear that isn’t in the cards for me just yet. I need to do something. Something more.
I need to do something that scares me, but something I’m ready for. Like move to Ohio? Maybe? My aunt seems to think she can get me a job up there. Could that be something I do in the next year? Move six states away from my family? Can I actually do that? The thought terrifies and excites me at the same time. But isn’t that the beauty of life. Shouldn’t I do the things I fear in order to experience the thrill of living?