Partly fueled by seeing myself on video, I'm in a very bad no good angsty existential-crisisy kind of place today.
Because I was all, why? Why do I make those weird faces? And why am I that pale and wrinkly? Oh, maybe because I'm this old.
Not that I'm old in the scheme of the world, but I'm this old without having done anything interesting. I'm this old in a very safe existence, one that pays our bills and provides health care.
Which are important, to be sure.
But is this all there is?
Am I never going to do anything bigger?
I want to leap. I want to write. I'm terrified to leap. I'm even more terrified to try to write a book.
What if I suck? What if I fail?
Best not to try.
It's easy to not care if I'm good at the things that don't interest me, because I wouldn't care if I sucked at them. Judge me, it's fine.
I've had one job after another that I'm not remotely passionate about. And I've been good, or anyway, good enough at them. And it's all fine.
Fine. Just fine.
But the things I love, the things I want to be good at? Maybe I could do something great.
Which would be better than fine. As you know.
Scary. It's scary. Safe is, well, safe.
And I'm only getting older.