The Red-Headed Kid is mowing my lawn. It’s awesome because it means Mrs. Wigglebottom gets a visitor once a week, which I can tell just delights her. But it bums me out because I don’t actually get to see him except for like the five seconds when he arrives before I leave.
Anyway, he turned twenty-eight on Monday and he’s having a hard time of it. As you might imagine. Since I’m sure, no matter how much you’re like “Oh, I’m not going to die at thirty now!” it’s probably very hard to get that deadline out of the back of your mind. It becomes a number around which a lot of psychic energy gets expended.
He told me that he’s having a hard time, too, because he realizes he’s going to have to come up with some long-term plans, or goals, or just something to work toward, and, really, he’s never had to do that before.
I didn’t have any good advice for him. I tend to flounder. It goes with my wallowing. I mean, practically, they’re the same motion, just one is less fun.
But then something becomes unbearable–for me it was the thought that I wasn’t going to at least try to be a writer–and you do it because not doing it sucks worse.
Lucky for folks who get that feeling early, I guess. But you can’t time it.