This is Cricket. I’ve known him since he was a few hours old. For the past 5 years ago, he’s been my #1 boo (sorry Conrad).
Act I. The Beginning
I never planned on adopting a kitten. I knew I wanted a cat eventually, but I always thought I’d adopt a full-grown feline. Then my friend’s boyfriend took in a very pregnant street cat who later had 5 beautiful babies and my plans went out the window. I fell in love with all of them and went to visit pretty regularly. When they were old enough to be weaned, I knew I had to take one home.
My day job is amazing because I’m in an environment that truly values work-life balance. I’m out of the office by 4 pm every day and I never have to take work home with me. My boss encourages us to take advantage of our paid time off (she even told me that if I don’t get sick often then I should use my time for mental health reasons!). My insurance includes therapy and acupuncture benefits. I get a free gym membership and I’m encouraged to attend fitness classes on my lunch break (hellooooooo Zumba obsession). I feel valued for my contributions and supported by my team and encouraged to learn and grow.
My consulting gig is great because it fulfills my activism side. I get to write about the achievements of an organization that’s funding really important gender justice work and I get paid well to do so. It’s amazing to have the opportunity to marry my marketing skills with a cause that I’m truly passionate about. I was initially worried about starting two new jobs at the same time, but I’m so glad that I swallowed my fear of taking on too much and accepted the position.
It’s pretty great!
But life right now is also just draining enough that when I get home from work and finish my consulting to-do list, all I can handle is eating dinner and then slaying demons in Diablo III with Conrad until I collapse into bed at 9 pm.
Late-night Taco walks are my favorite time to meditate on existential questions. I let my mind wander so that I can process whatever’s been going on and usually I stumble upon some useful insights which are promptly forgotten when I get home. But last night I had a thought that I haven’t been able to shake:
Maybe my 20s were all about fucking up so that I can do my 30s right.
I’ve been really hard on myself lately. Stuck in this rut where I constantly feel like I’m never getting enough done, never making enough money, never where I’m “supposed” to be. My brain gets stuck in these shame spirals where I beat myself up for quitting a job I should have stuck with or for buying a house before I met Conrad which now isn’t meeting our needs (yeah, my brain is such jerk that it gets mad at me for not being able to predict the future!). And it sucks and it’s hard because some of the self-critiques are sort of true but also they’re mostly an exaggeration and they definitely don’t give me enough credit.