I turn 38 tomorrow. Thirty-eight is within spitting distance of 40. I never really thought about where I wanted to be at 38 or 40. I guess I figured I would be happily married with a couple of kids, writing.
Instead I find myself married (happily is a matter of opinion, and it changes day to day – why don’t they ever tell you that?). No kids, which actually is ok, as long I don’t think about it too hard.
Writing. Yes, Iwrite. I think I wanted to be doing more of it, being a famous author, novelist, whatever. Instead I write and no one reads.
My day job has become torturously boring. It was, perhaps, exciting back in the fall when I cared enough to tiptoe around on eggshells. I no longer do – care or tiptoe.
I submitted my resume for another job, one I would be less bored by, and was told they received it. Then through another person I was told they were interested in me, but it’s been a week and there has been no phone call or email to set up an interview.
What was a flicker of hope is now a thin curl of rapidly fading smoke.
I sent an email advising I would be available for an interview on Friday. Ballsy, I guess, but really, I’m anxious.
Home is coming together. Dejunkifying has been horrifying and enlightening all at once. Last night I cleaned the livingroom into some semblance of order – like a home.
So what if this job hasn’t happened? That never occurred to me. I thought once they interviewed me they would hire me. I interview well, I’m more than qualified for the job. They haven’t called. What does it mean?
And what does it mean to be almost 38 and feeling like I’m on the verge of something, but still flailing about trying to figure out what it is?
Change is bubbling up within me, quickly replacing all of the air until I feel like I might explode.