Adulthood: Expectations vs Reality

When I was a very little monkey, adulthood to me meant that no one could control your cookie consumption.

I fantasized about the day I would become an adult.

As I got older I developed other ideas about being an adult would be like.  I even knew what I wanted to be - a rancher.  Specifically, inspired by books I had misinterpreted about animal conservation, of golden retrievers and orca whales.

But eventually, reality intervened and that dream fell by the wayside.  I got busy with school and then work.  I had a fancy real job and it went like this:

I think I might be in the middle of a mid-twenties crisis.  

It crept up gradually.  First, I started wondering about the amount of time I spend at work.

Then, I started wondering about the way I spend my time outside work.

And there it was, a full-blown "Adulthood: Expectations vs Reality" meltdown.

The thing is, I know my life is great.  I have a job, nice friends, a place to live.  But this is about being self-focused and in your twenties, so clearly something was missing.

Trying to figure it out, my brain started to wander. Hey, I thought, just for comparison, what would my childhood self, with all her expectations about adulthood, think of my life now? Disclaimer: this was one of the worst ideas I've ever had.  

For context, this was my childhood:

Let's explore this psychological shitstorm.

To start, my childhood self had a lot of questions for me.

Some of those weren't too anxiety-inducing.  I can open 80% of jam jars.  I can probably do long division, I just haven't in awhile.  And it definitely doesn't take 8 nurses to restrain me for shots (I'm down to a nurse per limb plus one to administer the shot).

But the rest...

It got lots worse.

I shut that door pretty quickly.

I think it all settled into my subconscious though, because one day I woke up and said "Why don't I read anymore?".  Other than daydreaming or climbing avocado trees with my golden retriever/best friend, reading was my favorite childhood pastime.  This was true into high school too. At some point in college I think I just started taking myself too seriously to do the kind of rampant reading I'd done earlier in life (or I made non-canine friends, who knows).

So I started rediscovering all of my favorite books, from serious Randian essays to the equally serious and involved "Deathgate Cycle".  Read it if you like dragons and magic.

But because I have an obsessive personality it didn't end there.  I started going to library book sales, collecting books, databasing my growing library (if you can't tell, I'm very cool).

The great thing about reading is that it sort of snowballs you into thinking about lots of other things. 
All those other things I'd left behind when I became an Adult, I started remembering.

'Misty of Chincoteague' reminded me of my pent up passion for all things pony.  So I planned my birthday around a horseback riding trip and did the financial math on pony ownership (conclusion: still only possible in my wildest dreams).

'My First Summer in the Sierra' reminded me that spending time outside made me less of a curmudgeon-cave-dweller.  So I started communing with trees and got back into rock climbing.

Reading to rediscover your identity is pretty wonderful.

But there is a cautionary tale here, as this is the story of an ongoing mid twenties crisis.

Here's the thing: I took it too far.  I should have re-read stuff I loved and embraced the whole book collecting thing.

Instead I thought, I can't be the only person struggling with questions about who I am and what I want! What do the great thinkers of history say about identity and purpose?

So I read a lot of philosophy.  Mostly modern interpretations of classical philosophy, which is how I found myself accidentally spouting Hegelian and Marxist ideas without really realizing it. 

Because you make really great choices at 25, I decided to stop spouting nonsense and make some REAL LIFE CHANGES.

Here was my list of action items:

I did the first two, plus item number four.  The fifth guy is unappealing and would massively interfere with the time I spend sitting around in my underwear feeling sorry for myself.  I am starting to realize the irony of item number three.  

The first two items (quit job -> Montana) were surprisingly easy, and surprisingly problematic. You see, the problem with experimenting with living your fantasy life is that you might really like it.  I sure did.

But, as my dwindling savings account reminded me, this was a summer fantasy. Being that happy is a little terrifying, especially when you can't feed yourself.

So I'm back at square one. I've laid off the philosophy and convinced myself I need a real job but still, somewhere in my twenties-addled brain, a sick fantasy lives on: