...I would feel like a complete loser (as opposed to, say, a nearly-complete loser.)
There is a bit of backstory due here. Very recently, I was coerced into joining Facebook. (I say coerced like someone pulled my hair and twisted my arm, but really, I found out my junior high friends were all on it, and I had missed a get-together, so I joined.)
And yes. There, in all their glory, was my eighth-grade class of 1993. Careers! Kids! Travel! Oh, my!
And then there is me. Somehow, "went to college, moved out-of-state, went back to college, got sick, worked some crap jobs, went back to college again and finally got a degree, got married, got really sick, and then got another crap job" does not sound like something I would want to tell my old friends. Neither does "I work in retail." Or, "I shopped away my savings, and now I am trying to figure out how to learn something that evil HR harridans consider important or else go to yoga teacher training...BUT I HAVE A GREAT WARDROBE DAMMIT!!!"
Yeah. None of that. So while my old classmates have families (I'm not jealous...I have decided to remain child-free...but still) real careers, full passports, and great homes, I have...well...a part-time job that allows me to sit and blog. (Not really. Interesting, though, how years ago, all anybody wanted was a job that allowed ample time to read, write, call your friends...hmm, I guess that is "growing up.")
I'm not discounting what I do have. It's just that, when you are a "class brain" and you are 13 years old, the world seems wide open. 15 years later, you realize that somehow, life happened, and you have been passed on the career/life highway by everyone else, no matter if they got straight A's or sat in the back and scribbled all day (I'm not saying anyone did this. I'm making a point.)
So. Facebook. Old friends. Feeling of complete and utter loser-dom, with no way out.
And then I realized, I never really feel like a loser when reading novels penned by 20- or 30-somethings...novels that tell stories about people just like me...too much education, not enough time or money, too much "stuff" that got in the way. How do these writers know exactly what I am going through?
Oh. Yeah. That explains it. They must have had somewhat similar experiences.
Which is why I am back to thinking that maybe I should just be a writer after all. (Supplemented, of course, by something else. At least until I can go to yoga teacher training. Then, I will stay away from stores and restaurants and offices.)
Ah, the secret boyfriend. So secret he doesn’t even know about it. Is it cheating if you have a real boyfriend and a secret boyfriend at the same time? ...