In keeping with the ticking of my biological clock, there is itchiness on the soles of my feet. Not all of us are lucky enough to have diamonds on the soles of our shoes.
I have lately been falling victim to a continually weightier form of depression. The expectations for self I have had along the way that have not come to fruition make up the bulk. Barely into my 30s, I am left with this disastrous idea that my life is in fact behind me. To be fair, I had traveled to more countries than states by the time I was 18… probably by the age of 12 if I’m being honest. In high school – the one here in suburbia of course, not my international school of expats – I had seen and done more than most of my friends’ parents had in over double the lifetime. Is it really any wonder I have such a warped perception of accomplishment? Thanks mom and dad.
Without delving too deeply into the minutiae of many experiences, it is safe to say that my norm was far beyond the norm where I continually find myself. I flourished with traveling and absorbed all the sights and sounds, the people and experiences. My roots were never fully planted, and until recent years I never had a problem with that. All sense of self and stability came from a tight family unit. My roots were my family. So “location, location, location” really never applied to me because it was and ever-changing backdrop to the next great adventure.
I’ve been told it sometimes can seem haughty and judgmental when I state my disdain for the status quo. But do not mistake me. Somewhere along this journey I came to strongly value that ever popular lifestyle of staying put and planting roots. Perhaps I value it so because it is by no stretch of the imagination close to what I myself experienced. I floated on a breeze that blew in the direction of my father’s jobs when I was younger, and then with my own dreams and desires. When those dreams and desires turn into creating roots, how? Roots and family and staying put maybe because it is different from my own personal status quo that has made up my life. But how?
And still… there’s that itching.
With the feeling that life is past, not present or having forward momentum, regaining that momentum feels like an imperative for survival. Sometimes the days of wandering through London with no other purpose than wandering are so far gone in memory that they fizzle and fade and I struggle to recall if it ever truly happened. Yet my heart still aches over the beautiful boy who I fell in love with at a Wagamama noodle bar and reminds me through my scars. While I still ride horses, I fight to feel the crisp air and breathtaking beauty I took in on horseback in the Victorian High Country, the strength of my steed galloping through the mountains I grew up dreaming about.
Those were the days I simply did. I went. I lived. (I once or twice had to hitchhike). Now, I don’t. I feel absorbed by someone else’s status quo, working to pay bills, not forwarding my momentum. Not doing, not living.
To quote my self-proclaimed alter ego’s alter ego… (you’ll figure it out)…
But what do I do every day? What do I do? Get up. Catch the bus. Go to work, come back home. Eat chips, and go to bed. Is that it?? I can’t…
Existing is simply not enough and never will be. I hope every day a blue police box will whooorrrp into my path and then I’ll go, I’ll do, I’ll live.
Until that day, I hear JetBlue is pretty decent?