Livinghigh: Quarter-life full
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Livinghigh was here at 9:53 PM /



Quarter-life full

It's not a question of PMS. I don't menstruate: wrong gender. It's not a case of the 'not-ever-having-done-anything' blues: I've done plenty of stuff that I'm apalled at, or bloody well proud of. It's, quite simply put, a case of the quarter-life crisis.

Damn.

I'm almost-25 (actually, more than a year left, but who's counting?); I've loved and I've lost (all of three-and-a-half times); I'm stuck in a job for the last one year (which doesn't really make me a rich man); and I've been down the road of semi-alcoholicism (I've recently discovered beer, but vodka and rum came along much earlier in my life).

Damn.

So what's left?

That is the question the three of us stooges ask almost everyday, albeit silently, sitting on a wrought iron bench in the office compound. I sit in the middle, while my two compatriots smoke rings of cigarette smoke, thereby shortening my life expectancy by approximately ten minutes with each puff, and we muddle over the enigma that is our lives.

Ho hum.

So, they say, the next step is to do things better. If Sex and the City and Friends are to be believed, thirty is the best age to live, and yet all of that seems quite daunting to three twenty-five-somethings like us. A new job is a must-have. A new relationship is essential. (A new relationship that lasts, and for god's sake, strangle Tina Turner and her dumb song about love having nothing to do with it. Love has everything to do with it!) A new policy regarding fitness and less alcoholicism is also necessary. Internet love hasn't really worked out all that well, and neither has long-distance love. The answer? - none of us know.

They take another puff, and at last count I'm going to die thirty years, two months, one week, three days, five hours, fifteen minutes and seventeen seconds from now.


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