Lies We Tell Ourselves

I'm about to turn thirty. That isn't old by any stretch, but it is a 'marker' of some sort. It's the age when you're not really a young kid finding your way in the world, but by most account being thirtysomething means you are a Full Fledged Adult, with all its trapping- a definite career path, some assets saved, perhaps some kids, etc.

I have none of those things and in many ways I don't give a shit. I've worked with enough affluent professionals to know that money and a Good Career can't make you happy or make you not dread coming into the office every Monday. Money and a Good Career are often either a trap keeping you in a miserable situation to make those McMansion and Audi payments or a crisis inducing moment of clarity - 'I busted my ass and this is as good as it gets?'

It's hard to separate the idea we have of ourselves and reality that stares mercilessly back at us. My Irish heritage ensures that I have an intermittent, yet neverending supply of melancholy and occasional self-loathing, but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. Pollyannas have always pissed me off, even as a child. It'd be a relief to see some of those people lumbering half naked through a busy intersection, popping OxyContin and threatening to saw off their genitals. (I'm looking at you P. Diddy).

Schadenfraude aside, people could use some honesty in their lives. You are not going to be wealthy and famous. You probably do not have any particular talent that sets you apart, despite what your teachers told you. Your college degree is mostly meaningless but you'll still spend 25 years paying it off. You will probably work in a stupid degrading job like a fucking dog until you're 70 years old. This is quite depressing and highly cliched but it has the virtue of being essentially correct.

This post started slightly whimsical and look where it ended up. Good Christ, I sound like fucking Dennis Leary/Eeyore hybrid. (Leore?) I fear if I continue typing tonight I'll end up in that intersection with P. Diddy. (I'll be the one sawing off his genitals). I'll try to post something a little more cogent soon. It won't be Walter Lipmann, but who reads this fucking blog anyway?