Some days I wake up feeling like shit. Irrationally so. Reading, really reading slowly not skimming this new (sort of—I knew it seemed familiar then remembered reading an extremely abbreviated version in O Magazine awhile ago at the gym, which is the only place I would read Oprah) Mary Gaitskill essay, “Lost Cat” didn’t make me feel less shitty, in fact I think it would make the average person bawl but I was glad to have read it. I think I should spend my full lunch hour doing real reading instead of scanning RSS feeds.
It only recently occurred to me that I should be five years younger and then I would be happy(er). I’ve never had a life to-do list: kids, marriage, home ownership, etc. and those aren’t the milestones I’m really talking about. I have nice-ish apartment, a stable ok paying job, enough spending money to occasionally splurge on clothing, trips and dining and sometimes people pay me to write. That’s not a bad place to be, but I can’t help thinking that this is where I should’ve been a decade ago. Which is always easy to say looking back. By now, I should be in a totally different strata, a fabulous strata that doesn’t just happen to you as it turns out but is self-created.
Except that in my 20s I was doing what I could at the time. It’s not like I’ve frittered huge chunks of my life away. But as I get closer to 40 than 30 I worry about all the little bits of time that can be squandered. One lazy week times ten can really add up. Months can turn into years. Sometimes I feel sick to my stomach over wasted time. In fact, I’m doing it this very second.
I think this calls for a revisiting of the Forgive Me For Time Lost prayer.