transitional

I am pretty certain I have a predisposition to constantly being in some form of transition.  Is that just life or a semiprecious infliction?  I like to assume that the successful – the pop stars and entrepreneurs – have made it past this rainy season.  They have found that sweet spot somewhere on a sandy beach in the middle of summer.  They have figured out the magical (or secret or laborious or luck bestowed) way to bask in the sun and maybe even possibly maintain their hard earned tan.  All the while the sorry-for-themselves folk such as me walk through an endless rain wondering when an umbrella will be found or, better yet,a parting in the clouds will come.

I don’t have a terrible life.  Quite the opposite.  It is quiet yet busy.  I work hard, but I get at least eight hours of sleep a night.  But I am a dreamer, and I spend my free time pretending I am an aspiring singer.  I imagine I am a ballerina straining for a prima’s spot on the stage.  I am a clothing designer beating the odds and on my way to fashioning costumes for Broadway performers.  In reality, I am too old and my thighs are not slender enough to be a dancer, and while I enjoy figuring out what to wear each morning, I am not up for the challenge of making my own clothes.  And that is where I find the path just keeps on going and the rain just keeps on falling.  I’m not even sure this is the right path.

Am I even on a path?  I chose my career late in life.  Let me rephrase that.  I chose my third career in my late twenties.  I chose it because I felt old and unsettled.  I thought it would make me a real adult.  But you can’t take the dreamer out of the adult.  While work doesn’t seem to get any easier despite my efforts, while I second guess my career choice, while the stress dreams at night continue, I pretend to be something else.  I pretend I am that prima ballerina.  I pretend I am a landscape artist.  I pretend I am a mailman donned in an unflattering blue gray uniform.  Tonight, after an especially trying week, I eat cold pizza in my bed and pretend I am still in my early twenties when life seemed more promising and open.  When life said, “you are an adult now and are capable of making all of your dreams come true.”

Well either life lied or I haven’t tried hard enough.  I haven’t jumped high enough or thought far enough out of the box or let go of my young girl’s ballerina aspirations.  Or maybe I am trying too hard to be settled when all I really need is to get on the right path.

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transitional