In my case, I'm insecure enough to just try and be realistic and predictable with my answer, but I like this approach much better.
My dream job?
Hmm... I've tried a couple attempts just now but erased them. Turns out even just letting myself be completely free to come up with anything, any dream job whatsoever, is harder than I imagined.
Does that say something? Yep: All is lost. I am doomed to forever live in the shadow of What Could Be, unable to see it for the light of everyone else's lives shining too brightly in my eyes. This is a scary place to be. It renders me useless. I sleep in. I watch tv. I watch movies. I find new music and drift along in the wake. I have temporary highs when I take showers and get dressed, thinking perhaps, perhaps there is something out there for me. Or when I go on a run that leaves my chemicals brewing and scheming with a false sense of power and potential.
In reality, what am I? I'm a 27-year-old unambitious and unimaginative, lazy, indifferent, selfish and stubborn man boy who doesn't want to grow up, who doesn't know how to work hard, and who hasn't hit any kind of rock-bottom in terms of living standards to wake him up, as they might say. But it's not a dream to wake up from. It's my reality. And it's a problem.
If I was someone in a magazine article we'd all lament at how lame our society is getting. We'd see that and say, "How aggravating! I work my butt off, pay my taxes, support my country and family, and this grown man kid watches his meager savings dwindle, can't get himself to look for and procure a job, and doesn't even care."
Maybe you've already thought that. Maybe you're a parent (yes, that's you, Mom) who could admit to thinking along these lines at some point. Or all the time?
But if you try and come to tell me all this to my face I'll charm you out of the house and then take some popcorn to my best friend's house for a pity party. That's my house, by the way. I'll numb my senses with melancholy background tunes and iPhone games until my eyes are bloodshot and my limbs are stiff. Then, since I'm already in bed, I'll reluctantly put down my phone at last and let myself slip away into deep body-tensing, fist-clenching, eyes-wide-open, mental screams, only to wake up in the morning and do it all again.
- - -
Woohoo!!! I love Melancholy Mondays. I'm so glad I figured out an excuse to post this all publicly. Go me! Life is so good. I steamed some vegetables a couple days ago and ate some leftovers of it today for lunch. Mm-mmm, so good. Yesterday we did a killer trail run, and I came across a new sensation in my legs toward the end. I was dehydrated and tired, some of my joints were starting to ache, my old blisters were flaring a bit, and my lower-back was giving out. But my legs, specifically the big muscle masses in them, I noticed suddenly were noticeably fine. It was awesome. I wondered if that's what it was like to run 50 miles. 100 miles. Maybe things start to ache. Maybe the mind is weary from the fight. But maybe, just maybe, the deep, thick muscles continue to march behind you, looking you in the eyes and saying, "Fight on, we fight for you."
That has a ring to it, doesn't it? Kind of makes you think I'm feeling positive and reinvigorated. But I'm not. Or maybe I am, but about what—getting off this chair and moving my legs? Because getting out of a chair is a victory? Okay, but it's also the end for me. It's not the means to an end. Super lame. I'm not re-motivated to get back to the phone and call a dozen different employers. Or even get online and search for a dozen potential employers. Or even think about what general areas I might want to work in. Or even figure out that dream job—something that is completely up to my own whims.
The life of someone like me means wondering when things are going to really turn south, but also knowing that someday things are going to really suck and I'd rather not think about that time. So, there are always more trails to run. Always another meal to eat. Always another movie to watch. Always another set of Instagram pictures to scroll through.
Let's be honest (say it like you're supposed to), this self-empowering, inspiring move to Tennessee hasn't produced much.
I'm the same as ever, just years older. I wonder what will change me.
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