Midlife. I can feel the second half of my life slipping away, one boring moment at a time. It feels like Sunday afternoon. The end of the weekend. I want to go on vacation and get drunk for five days and maybe never go back to work, but in reality I’m just going to sit on the couch and wait for the sun to go down. The clock won’t stop. Monday’s coming. Except in this case Sunday afternoon is midlife and Monday is the grave. I may not die Monday morning, but almost no one lives to see lunch time.
Some days my inner voice screams in frustration. I want to flip my desk and hurl my chair through a window. I want to SMASH a Chris shaped hole in the sheetrock and drive until I see an ocean. I want to be anywhere other than where I am, doing anything other that what I’m doing. When I feel like howling, I drink until the howl becomes a sarcastic aside. Rum quiets the beast.
This isn’t coming from a place of regret. I’m okay with the life I’ve lived so far. The screaming in my head is the sound of unbridled optimism crying to be released. It’s potential energy demanding to become kinetic, like The Mighty Mighty Bosstones stuck in a tiny silent elevator. I want to release my potential in the next forty years. I want to find my peak. I want to see things, to create things. I want to let the rum soaked genius out of the bottle.