Well, I turned 25. A whole quarter century old. I’m somehow feeling like I have my life together more than I ever have while simultaneously discovering that adulthood is a myth that’s been perpetrated by everyone older than me for the duration of my entire life. I don’t feel any different, or wiser, or anything like that. Time just moves faster now than it did ten years ago.
In some ways, that feels like a blessing. I was busy as a teenager and I’m busy now, but having to spend my nights occupied hurt more then. Now, when I tell myself, “Only two more nights until I can have a real break,” it… doesn’t seem like that long. It’s especially helpful now that I’m in a rotation that’s designed to have mandatory minimum 60 hour weeks. I’m not having fun, but I’m learning, and well… I’m not dead yet, am I?
Still, the past few weeks have led to some introspection. My preceptor this rotation has been discussing our post-graduation plans and what we want to do, and while I’m glad that he sees me as capable, he seems to have something of a martyr complex that he believes the rest of us should shoulder as well. I’m not comfortable with it. I can’t live my life based on the ideal that if I’m not spending 80% of my time working, I’m wasting myself. I love what I’ve chosen to do, but I can’t sacrifice myself to it. I don’t know if I’d be able to sacrifice myself to any career. I need to be able to be myself.
Work-life balance is important. We need to have something to work for, and that something comes from everything else we do- the time we spend with our families and friends, the time we spend working on our hobbies. I’ll put the time in to my work, but the other things that I care about require time investment, too. They are no less important to me than what I spend work day doing.
Some day, I am going to elevate this blog to an art form that is higher than endless bitching. Today is not going to be that day.
One month post-move, all of the little quirks of this apartment are slowly revealing themselves to me. The carpet, for instance, is super thin and kind of shitty, being as this is technically a handicap-accessible unit. (Side note: hardwood floors? would? be so much nicer? And also handicap friendly??) The most charming part of its existence, however, isn’t the texture, it’s the peppering of cigarette burns across the surface. Clearly, the previous tenant was a smoker (thanks for using ashtrays, friend). Anyway, I’ve been scoping out area rugs to cover the cigarette freckles. Why are rugs so expensive? Like, I walk on them. With my feet. How fancy do they have to be?
Some further thoughts on the week:
That’s all I got. I’m tired from working for negative money. Goodnight, moon.