It’s March 14th. That’s mid-March. The month of March is halfway over. April is quickly approaching, and then after that, May. My year-of-writing-a-book, my year-of-creating-a-better-life, my year of finding-a-new-career–it’s almost over. In five months I will be getting ready to go back to my classroom.
I don’t want to go back to my classroom in five months. I don’t want to go back at all.
Last night while wandering around Target (a great use of my time, I know) I made the mistake of picking up a book called The Happiness Project. It’s a book–written by a real woman who actually finished her book (unlike me) and had it published (obviously)–about a year-long self-created project wherein the author made conscious decisions and followed a logical plan to live a happier life. And as I stood there in the florescent light of the Target book department, I had a mini nervous breakdown.
What have I done with my year? I didn’t follow any wisdom of the ages. I didn’t find a higher power. I didn’t circumnavigate the globe, I didn’t start volunteering, I didn’t clean out all of my closets, de-clutter my laundry room, or start eating whole foods. Hell, I didn’t even lose the twenty pounds I know I need to shed. And, worst of all, I didn’t find a new career.
And so, as March 15th approaches, and the 16th, 17th, 18th and beyond all roll slowly past, I’m beginning to feel a bit desperate. I need to find something else to do with my life. Something that will make me happy. Something I am good at that I can do in exchange for money. Is that too much to want?