Quarterlife

I think I’m having a quarterlife crisis. Or at least a quarterlife funk. Let me be completely honest here by saying I’ve always thought quarterlife crises were ridiculous, the twentysomething’s version of emo, our lip piercings and heavy eyeliner. So, I suppose it’s appropriate that now I’m finding myself smack dab in the middle of one.

I don’t know if it’s being unemployed (let’s just get right out and say it—the job’s probably not coming back), if it’s emotional upheaval from thinking about Congo so much, if it’s my age or hormones or blood sugar or what. But there are days when I feel that my life doesn’t fit me anymore. Jesse and I are fine. We love our cats. I love how much I’m getting to write, and when the weekends arrive I no longer sigh in relief. I like weekends. But I also like weekdays again.

So, what could I possibly have to complain about? Nothing, really. Then why is it that some days I don’t want a garden, don’t want a house, can’t drag my butt into the kitchen to cook? Is it staying too long in one place? There are still many things about Wilmington that I love—the beach, the long summer, the chilly fall, the barbeque and sweet tea and collard greens. But we’ve been here four years now. Before this, we were in Orlando for about that long, and when we left it was certainly time.

At the end of last year, I was thrilled with everything domestic, was wanting a baby, was happy with the feeling of having roots. Now, all those things feel somewhat suffocating. We’re refinancing our house. Which is a good thing. But there are times when I just think, how is it that I am refinancing a house? How is it that my life is over? When did I get so old?

I read this article (I Can Do Anything, So How Do I Choose?) over the weekend and while I related to much of what the author had to say, about the disillusionment that comes with one’s mid-twenties and such, I kind of hated where the article ended up, with a carefree move to Chicago, and with lines like, “There is a kind of perverted contentedness in certainty born of a lack of alternatives.” There is no such thing. Not for me, anyway. The lack of alternatives—a thirty-year mortgage in a depressed housing market, Jesse’s stable job in the midst of a recession—breeds in me restlessness. Sorry to disappoint. (Yes, I know how ridiculous I’m sounding right now, how ungrateful, and I’m sorry for that, I truly am. But I’m being melodramatic, which, I believe, is one of the primary symptoms of a quarterlife crisis. Ask a doctor, and that’s what she’ll tell you, I’m sure of it.)

When we moved to Wilmington, I was giddy with possibility, with the impression that I could do anything, be anyone, go anywhere. We were never going to stay. And then Jesse got a good job that he genuinely enjoys, and we bought a house, and we got involved at church and got a group of friends we had fun with, and I graduated, and we planted a garden, and here I am. Everything seems perfect.

I know all the right answers, the being content in any circumstance. But is it possible to be content and restless at the same time? Because while I do feel anxious for a change, I don’t hate life. I may be a little depressed at times, but I’m not actually unhappy. I just feel my options have never been more limited.

I can try to find another job, with the likely outcome being either A. I don’t find a job, or B. I find another job I kind of hate. Or, I can stay at home and keep writing, and watch our savings account dwindle. I want to redecorate at least three rooms of our house, but I can’t afford to buy nonessentials like paint, picture frames, a futon. I want to take a vacation with Jesse—not anything extravagant, just some time away from home, just the two of us. But, that costs money too.

And wouldn’t those things just be postponing the inevitable return of these restless feelings? Is that why we buy new-to-us cars or get new curtains or move to a new city or rearrange the furniture or get a dog—to keep those feelings at bay for just a little longer? I guess I bought into the lie: find the right job, move to the right place, and then coast. Take vacations and plant gardens and have babies. And no more feeling like the world is much smaller than it should be. Maybe this is what it means to be “grown up.” But, as I said to Sabrina recently, adulthood lasts (if things go well) a really, really long time.

It’s not all gloomy. Let’s end this up. We went to Raleigh on Monday with Brandon and Kara, and Kara and I talked girl talk as we browsed Anthropologie, Sephora. And last night, Brandon installed a pot rack my parents gave us, and now I get to at least rearrange a couple cabinets. And I went to the library and got some promising books. So, there are all those things.

And I think what this crisis, or funk, or whatever, has made me realize is that it’s far too soon to give up. It’s far too soon to stop believing someday we will spend a summer in Paris, that we will drive across country. That we’ll be spontaneous again, that we’ll pack up and move somewhere we’ve never been, and finding a nearby Target will just be the most exciting thing. Life doesn’t end at thirty, or twenty-six. So, let’s start acting like it.