Five Year Plan

I still haven't gotten over the fact that I live in California and not in the great Northeast. And I'm still resistant to the idea that I might always live here. I don't want to, I whine. But since I no longer know what I want, this adversity might just be a cranky-baby, knee jerk reaction. I no like California! Of course, I no liked New York, Hoboken, Manchester, Newington, or Bristol (and I knocked Seattle out of the running before even visiting). So, this might just be a reoccurring theme. And maybe -- and I'm just throwing it out there -- my issues with California are not really with California. Maybe, just maybe, my issues are a bit more internal.

I keep trying to parse out exactly what I do want out of my life, but I'm coming up empty handed at every turn. Do I want to get married? Umm, OK. But my desire to get married is more about a fear of growing old alone and never having that connection with somebody. I want a travel partner, a confidante, and a guy attractive enough to have sex with occasionally. Seriously, that's all I want out of marriage. Throw in a good conversationalist with a playful sense of humor, and I will have won the lottery. Do I want to have kids? Yeah, that'd be nice. But Lord knows why anyone truly wants a child. The reasons run from biological need to "I just want to know what it would look like." I'm somewhere in the middle. Do I want to win an Academy Award or run a business? Sigh. Shrug. Maybe. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, it doesn't. Whatever. Not the end of the world.

Let me just admit right now that this blase attitude of mine is freaking me the hell out. I've always thought of myself as a directed and ambitious person. I've spent the majority of my life with a five year life plan. My thinking was, "Get in, get it done, and see how you like it." Cop? Sure. Six years later, I was in New York publishing. Five years after that, I'm in television in Los Angeles. I should have called it the "Five Years Then Out" plan. Because I'd get bored with whatever I was doing at the end of the five years, re-evaluate, tear it up, and peel out of town once again. But that 17-year old girl who swore a blood oath that she was breaking out of her hometown and setting the world ablaze has turned into a 36-year old who can't be bothered to strike the match any more. I blame therapy. I'm no longer mad at God, or my parents, or myself, so I've lost the energy to destroy any and all who get in my way. You wanna pass me? Go right ahead. Let me know what it looks like from the top of the corporate ladder, at the end of the aisle, in the maternity ward. I'll get there when I get there. Maybe. If I don't? Eh.

So, if I don't want to live anywhere in particular, or get married, or have a kid, or own my own business/win an Oscar, what do I want? I don't know, and the question is killing me! It's as if these are the only options. Remember those Choose Your Own Adventure novels that were big in the 80s? I feel like I'm living in one of those. But I've read all the adventures and I'm kinda disappointed in the way they all end, so... why bother? I'd like something different. But I'm beginning to think there isn't anything different. I'm beginning to realize that there are just small differences in how we choose to get married, have kids, or navigate a career. The existential angst of the midlife crisis -- Is this all there is?! -- is hitting me at 36. And if I'm asking that question now (with a deep abiding fear that the answer is Yes) then I'm in trouble ten years from now. Of course, ten years is two five year plans. Or Med School. Dr. Callahan? Hmm.... Maybe. Sigh. Maybe not.