Last week was deadly, I kid you not. Tons of meetings, the odd event here and there, and the deadlines, oooh the deadlines OHMYPOORFREAKINBRAINCELLS. Phew.
But this week might prove far more relaxed, still busy but compared to last week, it’s a walk in the park.
Anyway, the boyfriend and me were in the car, cruising Buendia when I was seized by an inanity.
An inanity I just have to admit I dread.
Me to the Boyfriend (in a flat voice): I will be 26 soon.
Bf: What?
Me (my voice close to hysteria): I will be 26 in THREE months.
Bf: *sigh* (he’s used to my sudden inanities, besides, he’s 28, but would say he’s 23 without any hesistation).
Mortality is one thing that we all have in common. Drop dead, and not all the money in the world can bring you back (unless your DNA is cryogenically frozen and you will be reproduced in the future, but then it still won’t be the same). I’m in a morbid mood, maybe that’s what too many deadlines do to you.
Point being, no matter how much moolah you have, you can’t really prevent the eventual wrinkles though you’ve had enough Botox to last you two lifetimes. I know that 26 is young, but maybe I’m caught up with the stereotype prerequisite of getting married, having kids, envying my batchmates who have gone down on more financial-driven paths, unlike me who wanted to be different and pursued the penniless existence of being a small fish in the world of lifestyle publications.
I remember watching Britney Spears while she first burst into the pop scene, how young she looked, but how I knew she was older than me, and my subconscious telling me there’s plenty of time being discovered in my field, in what I’m good at. Now, Britney is a mom with two kids, and a certain nuttiness about her, and starlets pile up day by day in Hollywood, and how I know that I’M older than them. I know that’s weird and I hope you get the point.
Then there’s the question “am I where I dreamt I would be at the age of 25?”, definitely not. I don’t have my own car, much less know how to drive. I’m just above minimum wage. Yes, sometimes I can be at first-name basis with personalities, but then, that doesn’t help when I want to take a vacation, or buy a new handbag. Yes, I manage to go to places where most of my friends would have to have a lot of money to go to, but then I’m just there to cover an event, and not out there making money.
Sex & the City has romanticized the life of a writer. I don’t know where the producers got the idea you can afford monthly shopping sprees of retail with people’s names attached to it. I don’t own any Loubotins, or Prada. I wish I could say I’ve held a Blahnik in my hands, much less my feet.
Quarter-life crisis sucks.
I do know I don’t want to have a mini-me yet, or walk down the aisle. But I’m also afraid of waking up one day, a wizened old woman with a few bylines but without a cent next to her name.
