Is 36 Too Early for a Mid-Life Crisis?

This week it hit me: What the hell am I doing? I mean with my career. My writing.

Considering that at age 72, the best years of my career may well be behind me, I think it’s accurate to say I’m having a mid-life crisis. When I received Andrea Buchanan’s new book in the mail, It’s A Boy, I flipped through the table of contents to see who contributed essays. I realized that, I wish I was one of the contributors. I wish that I was writing on that level.

I don’t like to sit around and cry in my coffee, feeling sorry for myself. I’ve been busy these last five years, having three children and all that. But out of no where this week, this overwhelming feeling of failure came over me. I can’t seem to shake it.

Part of it could be the post-partum blues, the reality that, right now, I have very little time and mental space for myself and my dreams. Part of it is disappointment in myself for not having more discipline to write daily, to focus on a goal, to make it happen. Part of it is not having a goal. What do I want?

Now that Ava’s four months, I know things will get back to “normal,” that I’ll start to regain some sense of routine so I can get my bearings, take stock.

Last night, Brian suggested I finish my master's at Emerson College. I need another 24 credits, I think. Where's the money for that, though? And where would I want that to take me?

For today I’m wallowing in my lack of accomplishments, my lack of direction. What the hell am I doing? I guess I need to figure that out.