It’s one of those nights where I glare too intensely at other people’s lives. I examine them, pick them apart, and then in turn scrutinize my own life to see whether or not I measure up, or whether I could one day.
Surprisingly, I’m closer than I’ve been in awhile.
I lay in bed tonight not reading, or writing, or watching Chopped on Hulu, but instead doing work. Something to do with spreadsheets and neighborhood data from the past 3 years. How did I get here? I wondered, aloud. The dog didn’t respond, nor did the cats, so I’m putting it out into the blogosphere…maybe I’ll find myself a kindred spirit in which to nurse all of my philosophical questions.
It’s recently occurred to me that there really is no such thing as the real world. I’m a (supposedly) successful, late-20’s woman who lives alone, manages her own life, has close friends and hobbies, and a good job. And I haven’t felt like a grown-up yet. I always thought something would click one day, and I would magically know the right answers and know what to say and be able to make sparkling conversation and not feel like that college kid who has no experience and no right to be anywhere except a classroom. Maybe it’s all a farce; maybe no one really knows what they’re doing. Maybe we’re all pretending.
It’s something to think about. Fake it ’til you make it.